Houston, we have a problem.


    All I’ve been thinking is that I’ll be safe once I’m stowed away on one of Oleg’s yachts.


    I haven’t thought about how I’m actually going to get inside them.


    If the seven-foot-high fences walling the yard off aren’t enough, there are also floodlights every few yards, cameras in between, and an army’s worth of security patrolling the area on foot.


    You’d think I was trying to get into the White House.


    More like the Morally Gray House, if we’re being honest.


    Still, I’vee too far to give up now. I might as well exhaust all possibilities before I call this quits and find a shelter to hunker down in for the night.


    Just the thought of going to a shelter again after all this time makes me feel sick to my stomach.


    That can’t be how my child’s life begins. I’d rather find a quiet bridge and a dry spot under it to take refuge.


    I walk around the boatyard, hugging the chain-link fence and keeping my eyes open. I notice a flurry of activity around one of the bigger yachts. Mening and going, security, carts being driven to and from the storage facility.


    Some are small, but others are almost person-sized. The question is, are theyrge enough that, with a little luck and a lot of intuition, I might be able to sneak my ass onto one?


    More importantly: Can I do it without being seen?


    Only one way to find out.


    I start to creep toward the end of the cart caravan. They’re loading from back to front, so most of the men are upied with piling boxes on the ones up toward the head of the procession.


    If I stay low, if I stay quiet, if I slip through the canvas ps without being seen…


    God, I hope this works.


    A hysterical bubble ofughter jumps to my throat. I just about manage to swallow it down.


    I inch closer. The floodlights keep beaming; the guards keep roving.


    It’s going to be close.


    Not yet.


    Not yet…


    Now.


    I lunge toward the cart during the slim window of opportunity. I duck through the ps and scurry all the way to the back. In the darkness, though, I trip and fall.


    The upside: nothing moves.


    The downside: my ass and elbow explode with pain.


    Honestly, they really should pay action stars more. I’m blinking back tears and massaging my elbow, trying my best not to whimper.


    Suddenly, the cart jerks forward. I gasp, but thankfully, my gasp is drowned out by the groaning wheels and rattling metal boxes stacked around me.


    I can feel the upward tilt of the cart as it’s pushed onto the yacht. Hopefully, no one opens the tarp to check on the goods inside.


    I keep my fingers and toes crossed until the cart bes stationary once more. Footsteps recede and silence takes over.


    I count to one hundred. When nothing and no onees to interrupt me, I slowly creep back out.


    I’m somewhere in the underbelly of the ship. It’s dark, cool, and quiet.


    But only for a second.


    As soon as I emerge, the sound of approaching footsteps sends my heart plummeting into my stomach. I take the first door I see and slip inside a bathroom with tiny little port holes.


    Through them, the ocean is a t ne of ck and blue. Not a single whitecap to break it up. The night is still.


    This will do for now.


    First, I lock the door. Then I slip down under the porthole and hug my knees to my chest.


    I don’t dare turn a light on in case someone waltzes by and notices.


    I just wait.


    Breathe.


    Wait.


    Breathe.


    And pray.


    I spend the next hour quaking in my boots—metaphorically speaking, of course. My boots are back in Mara’s apartment, along with the rest of my life.


    At one point, I hear voices just outside the bathroom door. I sidle a little closer and hold my breath, hoping to catch a snippet of conversation that might help me understand where we’re going.


    The crew members are speaking Russian. It might as well be Klingon, for all I understand.


    But the moment I’m about to crawl back into my little corner of the bathroom, I hear a word—a name—that sends shivers down my spine.


    “Boris…”


    No. It can’t be. I must have heard that wrong.


    But then I hear his name again and this time, there’s no disputing it. Feeling sick to my stomach, I end up with my cheek on the bathroom floor, staring at the patterned tiles, searching for answers in them.


    My body is aching. My head is spinning. My eyes are getting heavier and heavier.


    I’ll just rest them for a quick minute.


    It couldn’t possibly hurt, right?<hr>


    I’m woken by a painful gurgling.


    It feels like all the ache in my body has been concentrated in my stomach. I can’t decide if I want to throw up or eat something.


    Is this morning sickness?


    The irony is that it looks like it’s the dead of the night. To make sure, I peer out the porthole. The waves are animated now, all streaming in one direction.


    Almost to the point that it looks like we’re… moving?


    Wait.


    I clutch the edges of the porthole when I realize that I can no longer see the glittering lights of the harbor.


    Which means we’re no longer docked.


    Yes, now that I’m fully present, I can hear the steady thrum of the yacht’s engine.


    We must’ve been sailing for hours now.


    And I slept through it all.


    My queasy stomach doesn’t allow much room for thinking. I end up crawling to the toilet, lifting up the lid and going all Jackson Pollock in the bowl. Blech.


    Once I’m dry-heaving empty air, I flush and crawl over to the vanity. Not even a ssh of cold water on my face makes me feel better.


    What the hell am I supposed to do now? I don’t even know where this stupid yacht is headed.


    And just like that, like an answered prayer, I hear voices. Crew members moving about the lower deck.


    There’s no mention of Boris. But I do hear someone utter, “Nassau.”


    Nassau? That’s in the Bahamas, isn’t it?


    Well, I suppose there are worse ces to be unwittingly dragged to. I can figure out something from there. Maybe convince Sydney to wire me some money so that I can figure out next steps.


    I should be more concerned about being trapped in a foreignnd with no money and only a passport to my name.


    But the fact that I might be on this yacht with Boris is taking up all the worrying space in my head.


    I end up back on my cozy little spot on the floor underneath the porthole. Another choppy bout of sleepter and I wake up ravenous.


    I feel empty… literally and figuratively.


    I need to get food inside me fast and at the moment, I don’t care if I have to wrestle Boris himself for it.


    Sure, he might call the Coast Guard, have me arrested, maybe even throw me overboard as shark chum. But in the face of my hunger, that all seems worth it.


    So, marshaling up all my strength, I rise shakily to my feet and approach the door. I unfasten the lock and sp the door handle.


    I have no idea what’s waiting for me on the other side of this door but, fuck it—time to act.


    I pull the door open—and walk straight into a hard, warm wall.


    Stars prickle the edge of my vision.


    Then I copse.