"...and that was 'Summer Heat' by The Beachcombers. It's WMIA 93.9, your number one station for all the hits. Time for a quick weather update, folks. It's going to be another scorcher here in Miami today with temperatures soaring to 97 degrees and humidity at a whopping 85%. So keep those air conditioners running and stay hydrated! Up next, we've got..."
The tinny voice from the ancient radio perched atop the refrigerator droned on, barely audible above the rhythmic hum of the convenience store's overworked air conditioning unit. Sunlight streamed through the storefront windows, casting long rectangles of golden light across the linoleum floor,floor tiles that had once been white but had yellowed with age, bearing witness to countless footsteps over decades.
Seventeen-year-old Marco Alvarez leaned against the counter, idly flipping through a gaming magazine, the glossy pages sticking slightly to his fingertips in the humidity. Beads of sweat gathered at his temples despite the air conditioning. His dark hair was pushed back with a bandana, and his red store vest hung loosely over a black t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of his favorite band.
"Man, did you hear that? Ninety-seven degrees. Again." Marco sighed dramatically, fanning himself with the magazine. "I swear, one day I'm just gonna melt right here on this floor, and you'll have to mop me up, Ivan."
Ivan Petrov glanced up from where he was carefully arranging a display of canned goods. Despite being in his forties, Ivan moved with the deliberate precision of someone much older, his weathered hands working methodically. His salt-and-pepper hair was closely cropped, and deep lines etched his face, particularly around his pale blue eyes,eyes that had seen more of the world than Marco could imagine.
"In Siberia, where I grow up, we pray for such heat," Ivan replied in his thick Russian accent, a hint of amusement creeping into his usually stoic expression. "You think this is hot? Try minus forty degrees, where your breath freezes before your eyes and your eyelashes turn to ice."
Marco rolled his eyes, having heard variations of this story countless times during his three months of employment at "Sunshine Convenience." "Yeah, yeah, I know. You walked ten miles to school in the snow, uphill both ways, fighting bears with your bare hands."
Ivan's laugh was a low rumble. "Not bears. Wolves maybe." He positioned the last can perfectly and stepped back to admire his handiwork. "You Americans, so soft. Always complaining about weather."
Before Marco could retort, the bell above the door jangled, and both men turned to see an elderly woman shuffle into the store. Her progress was painfully slow, aided by a metal walker that squeaked with each step. She wore a floral dress that hung loosely on her diminutive frame, and a wide-brimmed sun hat shaded her face from the relentless Miami sun.
"Mrs. Rosario," Ivan acknowledged with a respectful nod. "Good afternoon."
"Hello, dear Ivan," Mrs. Rosario's voice was soft and melodious, carrying the lilting accent of her native Cuba. "And young Marco. How are you boys today?"
Marco mumbled a greeting, already anticipating what was coming. Mrs. Rosario visited the store twice a week, and each visit took what felt like an eternity as she painstakingly selected her items, often requiring assistance to reach products on higher shelves, or to read labels, or simply to engage in conversation.
"What can we help you find today?" Ivan asked, already moving toward her.
"Oh, just a few things for dinner. My granddaughter is coming to visit this weekend." Her face lit up at the mention of her granddaughter. "I wanted to make her favorite arroz con pollo."
Marco caught Ivan's eye, and the older man nodded toward Mrs. Rosario, a silent command to help. With an exaggerated sigh that he made sure Ivan could hear but Mrs. Rosario couldn't, Marco reluctantly put down his magazine and trudged over.
"What do you need, Mrs. R?" he asked, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.
As Mrs. Rosario began to recite her grocery list, Marco's thoughts drifted to the new video game he'd been saving for,"Nebula Warriors: The Final Conquest." The latest installment in the series for his PolyStation IV that he managed to buy after many past suffering in this little store. The game was releasing next week, and he was still fifty dollars short. Each hour in this sweltering store brought him closer to his goal, but days like today made time crawl by with excruciating slowness.
"The saffron, dear. It should be in the spice section," Mrs. Rosario was saying, pointing a gnarled finger toward the back of the store.
"I don't think we carry saffron," Marco replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"We special ordered for Mrs. Rosario last week," Ivan interjected, giving Marco a pointed look. "Top shelf, blue box, behind the oregano."
Marco slouched toward the spice rack, muttering under his breath, "Of course we did. Heaven forbid we don't have some weird spice for her."
"It is not weird spice," Ivan said sharply, his hearing apparently better than Marco had given him credit for. "Saffron is most expensive spice in world. Very precious. In Russia, only wealthiest could afford."
"Whatever," Marco mumbled, stretching to reach the small blue box. "It's just a pain in the ass having to bend over backward for every customer who walks in." He retrieved the saffron and returned to Mrs. Rosario, placing it in her basket with forced politeness.
Mrs. Rosario, either oblivious to his attitude or choosing to ignore it, smiled warmly. "Thank you, dear. Now, I also need some chicken thighs from the refrigerator case, but I'm afraid my old eyes can't read the packages very well."
Marco stifled a groan as he glanced at the clock on the wall. Four more hours of his shift stretched before him like an eternity.
Ivan, noticing Marco's expression, stepped in. "I will help with chicken. Marco, perhaps you can find the rice Mrs. Rosario likes? The Valencia one?"
"Fine," Marco agreed, grateful for the simpler task. As he headed toward the rice aisle, the store's air conditioning unit sputtered momentarily before resuming its labored hum. A fresh wave of hot air seemed to wash over him, and he wiped his brow in frustration.
"This heat is going to kill me before I even get to play that game," he grumbled, scanning the shelves for the specific rice.
"What game is this you save for?" Ivan called from across the store, where he was carefully examining chicken packages with Mrs. Rosario.
"Nebula Warriors: The Final Conquest," Marco replied, his voice lifting with genuine enthusiasm for the first time that day. "It's the last game in the trilogy. I've been waiting for it forever. The graphics are supposed to be insane, and they added this whole new planet system where you can,"
"Ah, video games," Ivan interrupted, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. "In my day, we make our own entertainment. No fancy electronics."
"Yeah, I bet you just watched the snow fall for fun," Marco retorted, locating the rice and bringing it to Mrs. Rosario's basket.
"Sometimes, yes," Ivan said seriously, though a twinkle in his eye betrayed his enjoyment of their banter. "Snow in Russia is not like rain here. It falls like... like dreams from sky. Each flake perfect and different. In silence of winter night, watching snow fall is better than any video game."
Marco was about to deliver another sarcastic comment when he noticed Mrs. Rosario watching Ivan with a soft smile, nodding in understanding.
"It's like that with the ocean for me," she said quietly. "When I first came to Miami from Havana, I would sit for hours watching the waves. Each one different, each one telling a story." She patted Ivan's arm. "We are old souls, you and I, Ivan."
Ivan nodded, a moment of silent understanding passing between them,two immigrants who had left behind one world to build a life in another.
Marco shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling like an intruder on a private moment. For a brief instant, he glimpsed something in Ivan that he hadn't seen before,not just the stern, sometimes gruff older man who was always telling him to work harder or complaining about "young people today," but someone who had lived a whole life before coming to this small corner of Miami.
The moment passed as Mrs. Rosario consulted her list again. "Now, I need some bell peppers, garlic, and onions."
As Marco helped gather the remaining items, he found himself asking, "So, how long have you been in Miami, Mrs. R?"
"Fifty-two years this September," she replied, her eyes growing distant with memory. "I came in 1973, after the revolution made life... difficult. I was younger than you."
Marco tried to imagine Mrs. Rosario as a teenager, fleeing her homeland, arriving in a strange new country. It seemed impossible.
"And you, Ivan? How long have you been here?" he asked, surprising himself with his genuine curiosity.
Ivan was silent for a moment, his hands stilling on the shopping basket. "Fifteen years," he finally said. "Before that, Moscow. Before Moscow, small village you never hear of."
"Did you come with your family?" Marco pressed, realizing he knew almost nothing about the man he worked with five days a week.
Ivan's expression closed slightly. "No. Just me." He gestured toward the register. "We should check out Mrs. Rosario's groceries. The heat outside grows worse by minute."
As they moved toward the front of the store, the radio announcer's voice cut through again: "...and don't forget folks, tropical storm warnings have been issued for later this week. Time to stock up on supplies..."
"Great, a storm," Marco groaned. "That means we'll be swamped with people buying water and batteries."
"Good for business," Ivan replied pragmatically. "Good for your video game fund."
As Ivan carefully rang up Mrs. Rosario's purchases, treating each item as if it were precious, Marco found himself watching the older man's hands,hands that were strong yet gentle, bearing calluses and small scars that hinted at a lifetime of hard work.
"Do you miss it?" Marco asked suddenly. "Russia, I mean."
Ivan paused, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved. "Yes and no," he finally said. "I miss the snow. I miss the language in my ears. I miss certain foods, certain smells." His eyes met Marco's. "But freedom to choose your path is worth sacrifice. America is land of opportunity, as they say. Even if opportunity is sometimes just small convenience store."
Mrs. Rosario nodded in agreement. "It's the same for me. Cuba will always be in my heart, but here... here my children and grandchildren could grow up safe, could become doctors and lawyers."
Marco helped bag the groceries, feeling suddenly self-conscious about his earlier complaints. Who was he to whine about the heat or boredom when these people had left behind their entire worlds to start over?
As if reading his thoughts, Ivan said, "It is okay to want things, Marco. To want better. This is why we come to America. But remember, the path to what you want,it is made of days like today. Small moments. Hard work. Helping old ladies find their saffron." His mouth quirked up in a rare smile.
Mrs. Rosario reached into her purse and carefully counted out the money for her groceries. As Ivan handed her the change, she pressed something else into Marco's hand,a twenty-dollar bill.
"For your game," she said, her eyes crinkling warmly. "A small thank you for your help today, and all the days."
"Mrs. R, I can't," Marco began, but she cut him off with a gentle but firm shake of her head.
"Young man, when you get to be my age, you'll learn that the joy of giving is worth far more than money. Let me have this small pleasure."
Marco looked from Mrs. Rosario to Ivan, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Thank you," Marco said finally, carefully folding the bill and placing it in his pocket. "I'll... I'll help you to your car with these bags."
The bell jangled again as Marco held the door open for Mrs. Rosario, the blast of hot air from outside hitting him like a wall. Yet somehow, in that moment, the heat didn't seem quite as oppressive as it had before.
As they carefully loaded the groceries into Mrs. Rosario's ancient Buick, Marco found himself wondering what Ivan's village in Russia had looked like, and whether the winters there were as beautiful as the older man had described. He wondered what Mrs. Rosario's Cuba had been like, with its ocean waves telling stories. He wondered about the journeys that had brought them all to this precise moment, to this small convenience store in Miami on this sweltering afternoon.
Back inside, Ivan was adjusting the radio, searching for a weather report through the static. The air conditioning sputtered again, and Marco grabbed a newspaper to fan himself.
"This heat is still a pain in the ass," he declared, but there was less venom in his complaint. "But I guess I'm thirty dollars closer to that game now."
Ivan's chuckle was warm and genuine. "Such is life, young Marco. Such is life."
The moment of connection between them hung in the air like the Miami humidity,almost tangible. Ivan was about to continue their conversation when the store phone rang, its jarring bell cutting through the hum of the air conditioner and the murmur of the radio.
"I take this," Ivan said, his face still holding the rare warmth from their previous conversation. He moved to the phone with unhurried steps.
Marco nodded, sliding seamlessly behind the register. This dance was familiar to them both. He pretended to busy himself with reorganizing the display of lighters and gum near the counter, but his ears were attuned to Ivan's conversation.
Ivan lifted the receiver, his expression unchanged as he brought it to his ear. "Sunshine Convenience. How may I help?" His voice carried the same measured warmth he'd used when speaking of snowfall in his homeland.
Then came a distinct electronic beep on the line,barely audible to Marco but unmistakable to Ivan. Like a switch being flipped, Ivan's entire countenance transformed. The smile that had softened the Russian's weathered features vanished instantly, replaced by a mask of professional detachment. His posture straightened, shoulders squaring as if invisible weights had been placed upon them. His knuckles whitened slightly as his grip on the receiver tightened.
The tinny voice on the other end carried just enough for Marco to hear a woman speaking. Her tone was pleasant, conversational,the kind that wouldn't raise suspicions if someone happened to be listening.
"Hello there. This is Linda Carrington," the woman said, her voice carrying a slight Southern lilt. "I'm looking for a reliable yacht cleaning service. I was told you might be able to help with some stubborn stains on board."
Ivan's eyes flicked briefly to Marco, then to the security camera in the corner. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Yes, Ms. Carrington. We offer such services. How many cabins requiring attention?"
"Well," the woman replied without hesitation. "there are very problematic spots throughout the ship. They need a thorough treatment,someone who knows how to remove all traces completely." A pause. "Especially the main cabin. The staining there is quite... extensive."
Marco watched as Ivan reached for the notepad kept near the phone and began writing with precise, economical movements. The Russian's handwriting was always impeccably neat,block letters that reminded Marco of architectural drawings.
"I understand," Ivan responded, his voice dropping slightly. "And when is this service needed?"
"Immediately," the woman said, an edge entering her otherwise pleasant tone. "The vessel needs to be pristine rather suddenly. I need someone at the Palmetto Harbor Marina, Dock C, within the hour. There's a blue and white yacht called 'The Liberty.' The current cleaning crew is still onboard but their methods are... insufficient."
Ivan wrote something else on the pad. "And what time must the vessel be ready for inspection?"
A coded question. Marco had heard variations of it before.
"By sunset," the woman replied. "No later. It's imperative the job is completed by then. The owner is returning at 8:30 for an evening cruise."
"I see," Ivan said. "And are there any special requirements for this cleaning job?"
The woman's voice lowered, becoming all business. "The main cabin is the priority. The other areas are less concerning but should be handled with the same discretion. No evidence of additional cleaning should be apparent. I've left an envelope with special instructions and payment in the usual place."
"Of course," Ivan responded. "And standard rates apply?"
"Double the standard," the woman said. "This is a delicate situation. The owner is... well-connected. There can be no traces left."
Marco saw Ivan's expression harden further, the lines around his mouth deepening.
"No traces," Ivan confirmed. "I am professional."
"I know you are. That's why I called." The woman's voice softened momentarily. "One last thing,the current cleaners may be difficult to work with. I hope this won't be a problem."
Ivan made one final note. "I understand. I will leave immediately."
"Thank you. I won't forget this favor." The line went dead.
Ivan replaced the receiver slowly, then tore the page from the notepad and folded it with methodical precision before slipping it into his shirt pocket. He stood motionless for a moment, his gaze fixed on some middle distance, as if mentally preparing himself for the transition from convenience store clerk to whatever role he was about to assume.
Marco had long ago stopped asking questions about these calls. The first few times, Ivan had deflected with vague references to "old friends" and "small favors." Eventually, Marco had developed his own theories,that Ivan was former KGB, or maybe involved with the Russian mafia, or perhaps both. The truth, Marco suspected, was probably both simpler and more complex than his teenage imagination could conjure.
"Marco," Ivan said, approaching the counter. "I must go meet acquaintance. Very important. You watch store until closing, yes?"
It wasn't really a question. It never was.
"Yeah, sure," Marco replied, trying to sound casual. "Mrs. Perez will be in at six for her cigarettes. And Mr. Washington usually comes for his lottery tickets around seven."
Ivan nodded, clearly only half-listening. "Lock up properly. Count register twice. No friends visiting while I am gone."
"I know the drill," Marco said, unable to keep a hint of curiosity from his voice. "Everything okay?"
Ivan paused, studying Marco with an expression that seemed to be weighing something. "It is business matter. I need to help out a friend. Nothing for young man to concern himself with."
The bell above the door jingled as a customer entered,a middle-aged woman seeking refuge from the heat, her face flushed. Ivan waited patiently as Marco helped her locate the cold medicines she was looking for, watching the interaction with assessment in his gaze.
When the woman left, Ivan moved toward the door. "I return when business is concluded. Perhaps late. Do not wait."
"Be careful out there," Marco said, the words escaping before he could consider them. It was what his mother always said when he left the house,a reflexive blessing of sorts.
Ivan stopped, his hand on the door. Something flickered across his face,surprise, perhaps, or a distant memory. For a brief moment, the mask slipped, and Marco glimpsed the man who had been reminiscing about Russian snow just minutes earlier.
"Always," Ivan replied quietly. Then, more firmly: "Remember, double-check back door lock. Last week it was loose."
And then he was gone, stepping out into the blinding Miami sunshine. Through the window, Marco watched as Ivan walked to his car,not the ancient Lada he usually drove, but a nondescript black sedan that Marco had seen parked behind the store occasionally. Ivan didn't look back as he pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic, vanishing among the colorful parade of vehicles crawling down the sun-baked street.
Marco leaned against the counter, the weight of the empty store settling around him. The radio continued its cheerful chatter, oblivious to the undercurrents of mystery that had just swept through the space.
"...And that was 'Secret Agent Man' by Johnny Rivers. Coming up next, we've got the traffic report, but spoiler alert, folks,it's backed up everywhere. This is Miami, after all..."
x-x-x
The black sedan slid silently into a parking spot at the far end of the Palmetto Harbor Marina lot, nestled between a weathered pickup truck and a luxury SUV. The location offered both concealment from casual observation and a clear sight line to Dock C, where the sleek silhouette of "The Liberty" rose and fell gently with the incoming tide.
Ivan sat motionless behind the wheel for precisely three minutes, his pale blue eyes scanning the surroundings with methodical precision. The marina was relatively quiet for this time of day,a few tourists ambling along the boardwalk, a maintenance worker repairing a section of railing, two security guards chatting near the harbormaster's office. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to suggest an ambush or surveillance.
Only when he was satisfied did Ivan reach for the leather duffel bag on the passenger seat. His movements were unhurried yet precise, those of a man who had performed this ritual countless times before. From the bag, he extracted a tailored black suit jacket to match his pants, shrugged it over his shoulders, and buttoned it with practiced efficiency. The lightweight material was expensive, custom-made in Bangkok by a tailor who asked no questions about the special modifications,the reinforced sections, the hidden pockets, the fabric treated to repel both water and bloodstains.
Next came the tools of his trade. A ceramic knife, thin as a credit card, slipped into a sheath at his ankle. Piano wire coiled inside what appeared to be an ordinary wristwatch. A small aerosol canister disguised as a breath freshener. Each item was checked and secured in its designated place with the same care a surgeon might arrange instruments before an operation.
Ivan's fingers brushed against something in the bag's side pocket,a small, faded photograph showing a woman and a young boy standing in front of a snow-covered cottage. He paused, his expression momentarily softening. Then, with practiced discipline, he tucked the photograph back into its place without looking at it again.
The last item he removed from the bag was a mask,not the sophisticated, realistic prosthetics he sometimes employed, but a simple theatrical clown mask made of hard plastic. The face was painted white with a red smile stretched unnaturally wide, blue diamonds around the eyes, and a bulbous red nose. It was deliberately garish, deliberately memorable. Witnesses would remember the clown, not the man beneath.
It was also a signature of sorts, a message to those who needed to know: this was the work of "The Jester," a particular operative whose reputation for clinical efficiency was known in certain circles from Moscow to Miami.
With a final survey of his surroundings, Ivan slipped the clown mask into an inner pocket of his jacket and exited the vehicle. The Miami heat hit him like a physical force, but he showed no reaction. The convenience store clerk who complained about the weather was gone now, replaced by a figure who moved with the fluid economy of a predator.
Ivan approached the marina on an indirect path, pausing occasionally to check his phone like any tourist. His gait was different, the slight limp he affected at the store completely absent. Even his posture had changed, the stooped shoulders of an aging immigrant replaced by the straight-backed confidence of a man in his physical prime.
As he neared Dock C, Ivan spotted a security checkpoint where a bored-looking guard was checking credentials. Not part of the standard marina security,this was a private contractor, likely hired by the yacht's owner. Ivan veered away, circling toward a service area where several maintenance workers were loading supplies onto a cart.
Timing his approach carefully, Ivan fell into step behind the workers, his movements mirroring theirs so perfectly that to a casual observer, he appeared to be part of their group. When they passed through a service gate, Ivan slipped through with them, nodding to the guard as if he belonged.
Once inside the restricted area, Ivan detached from the group and moved into the shadow of a large storage container. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of "The Liberty." A gleaming 120-foot yacht with sleek lines and an ostentatious blue and white paint job. True to the information he'd received, there appeared to be minimal activity on board.
Ivan analyzed the yacht's layout, mentally plotting entry points and escape routes. The main gangway was too exposed. The stern offered better cover but would require swimming. The port side, however, was positioned against the dock in a way that created a blind spot from the security cameras.
Decision made, Ivan waited for a moment when the dockworkers were distracted by the arrival of a fuel truck. Then, with graceful efficiency, he moved from his hiding place and approached the yacht from the blind side. At the precise moment when the security camera would be panning away,a timing he'd calculated from observation, Ivan slipped the clown mask from his pocket and secured it over his face.
With a single fluid movement, Ivan vaulted over the yacht's railing, landing on the deck without a sound. He pressed himself against the cabin wall, listening intently. From within, he could hear muffled voices,at least two, possibly three distinct individuals. One was raised in anger, another responding in placating tones.
Ivan checked his watch again. Time to begin the "cleaning."
Drawing a blade,a matte black ceramic knife that would leave no metal traces,Ivan moved deeper into the vessel's interior. The clown's painted smile remained fixed, a grotesque parody of mirth that would be the last thing his targets would see. Behind the mask, Ivan's expression was equally fixed,not in a smile, but in the perfect blank canvas of a man who had left his humanity locked safely away in a convenience store in Miami.
The low hum of the yacht's generators masked the soft sounds of Ivan's approach. He moved like a shadow, gliding across the deck with lethal grace, his breath steady, his pulse slow. The cabin door ahead was slightly ajar, light spilling onto the polished wood.
A voice, male, Americanized Spanish, laughed inside. "You should've seen his face, man. Begging like a little,"
Ivan kicked the door.
Hard.
The metal latch slammed into the man's temple with a wet thunk. The force of the impact threw him backward, toppling over a glass coffee table that shattered beneath his weight. Ivan stepped inside before the second man could react, knife flashing. A clean, silent arc. The blade sliced deep into the soft tissue beneath the man's chin, puncturing up into his brain. His body twitched once, then slumped forward, blood spilling in thick, pulsing waves onto the mahogany floor.
The third man,the one who had been laughing,was struggling to rise from the wreckage of the broken table, glass shards embedded in his face. His lips formed a curse, one hand reaching for a pistol holstered at his hip.
Ivan didn't give him the chance.
He stepped forward, grabbing the man's wrist in a crushing grip and twisting violently. Bone snapped. The pistol clattered to the ground. With the same motion, Ivan slammed the man's head into the nearest wall,once, twice,until the skull caved, blood streaking down in dark rivulets.
Silence.
Ivan crouched and retrieved the pistol, checking the chamber. Fully loaded. He slid it into his waistband before moving deeper into the yacht.
A narrow hallway stretched ahead, doors on either side. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps. No time for subtlety now. The bodies would be found soon.
Ivan moved forward.
A door on his left opened suddenly, and a guard stepped out. Their eyes met.
Ivan lunged, driving his knife into the man's throat before he could even raise his weapon. He twisted the blade, severing the carotid, then yanked it free. Blood fountained onto the pristine white walls as the man collapsed with a strangled gurgle.
Another door opened. More footsteps.
Ivan spun, gripping the dead guard's body and shoving it forward as the next man entered the hallway. The corpse crashed into him, and Ivan used the distraction to close the distance. A brutal elbow strike shattered the second guard's nose, and before he could recover, Ivan slammed his head into the doorframe. Bone cracked. The body slumped.
Then,a voice. "What the fuck?! Something's wrong,"
A shout from further down the hall.
Ivan grabbed the fallen man's pistol and pressed his back against the wall. A second later, two more guards rushed in, guns raised.
The moment the first one crossed the threshold, Ivan fired.
One shot,between the eyes.
The guard crumpled. The second hesitated just a fraction of a second too long. Ivan took two quick steps forward, slamming the pistol into his jaw, then brought his knife up in a savage, underhanded thrust into his abdomen. He twisted the blade, feeling resistance as he punctured a lung. The man gasped, trying to scream, but Ivan forced the knife deeper, silencing him.
Now the alarm would spread.
No more time for stealth.
Ivan grabbed the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. Heavy. Metal. He moved fast, reaching the staircase leading down to the lower deck. A figure appeared at the bottom, gun drawn.
Ivan hurled the extinguisher.
It struck the man in the face with a sickening crunch, shattering his teeth and sending him sprawling. Ivan descended in three quick strides, finishing the job with a single stomp to the throat.
More shouting. Down the hall.
Ivan sprinted forward. The next guard barely had time to react before Ivan kicked the door in. The impact sent the man stumbling backward.
Ivan didn't slow.
He drove his shoulder into the guard's chest, pinning him against the wall, then jammed the barrel of his stolen pistol under his chin and pulled the trigger. Brain matter splattered the ceiling.
The targets were close now. Ivan could feel it.
He retrieved his knife from the last corpse and moved forward. The door at the end of the hallway was locked, but he could hear voices inside,heated, urgent. They knew something was wrong.
Ivan took a step back.
And kicked the door in.
It flew open with explosive force, splintering at the hinges.
Inside,a lavish cabin, a table covered in stacks of cash and scattered lines of cocaine. Three men. The targets.
One of them,bald, heavyset,was reaching for a gun. Too slow.
Ivan shot him in the throat.
The second man, younger, dove for cover behind a couch, scrambling for a weapon. Ivan advanced, flipping the couch over with a brutal kick. The man rolled, raising a shaking pistol,
Ivan grabbed his wrist and twisted. The gun went off, the bullet burying itself into the wall. Ivan didn't let go. He yanked the man forward and plunged the knife into his sternum. The body convulsed, a choking, wheezing sound escaping his lips.
The third man,older, dressed in a silk shirt stained with sweat,was frozen in place, hands raised. "Wait,"
Ivan fired.
A single shot to the forehead.
The room fell silent.
The job was done.
Ivan exhaled slowly. He moved methodically, wiping his knife clean before securing it back in his jacket. He checked his watch.
Three minutes.
Too efficient. That should have made him proud,once, it would have. But the ease with which death came from his hands now left him hollow. Empty. Like the shell casings that littered the floor.
He was preparing to make his exit when he heard it,a distant, wailing cry that cut through the night air. Sirens.
Impossible. He had been careful, methodical. No witnesses, no alarms. His gaze swept the room, searching for what he had missed.
But thinking about the whys and the hows are already meaningless, he needed to get out.
Ivan moved quickly to the cabin windows, calculating his options with the practiced efficiency of a man accustomed to improvising in lethal situations. The sleek architectural design that made the yacht so elegant to the eye also transformed it into a perfect trap,the windows were reinforced portholes, far too small for a man of his build to squeeze through, their thick glass designed to withstand the battering of ocean storms. He needed another exit route, preferably one that didn't involve confronting the small army he could hear assembling above.
The deck overhead erupted with the sound of men shouting orders in rapid Spanish, the metallic symphony of weapons being readied echoing through the vessel's expensive interior. Ivan retrieved his silenced Makarov from his shoulder holster and checked the magazine with practiced fingers,four rounds left, plus one in the chamber. Not nearly enough for what awaited him.
He surveyed the carnage surrounding him with clinical detachment. Three men lay sprawled across the luxurious cabin,one slumped over the marble-topped bar, crimson liquid pooling beneath him that wasn't from the spilled cocktail beside his outstretched hand. Another was crumpled near the entertainment system, his unseeing eyes fixed on the cabin ceiling. The third had fallen beside the large mahogany table at the center of the room, where several kilograms of cocaine were still arranged in neat lines, the white powder standing in stark contrast to the spreading pool of blood soaking into the custom Persian carpet.
No time for regrets. No time for contemplation. Ivan had been in this business long enough to know that hesitation meant death. He moved to the door leading to the corridor, pressing his ear against the cool wood, listening with the heightened senses of a predator. The lower deck hallway seemed momentarily clear of movement. His best chance was to make it to the stern and dive into the water, using the gathering darkness as cover.
Ivan eased the door open, the well-oiled hinges making no sound. He slipped into the corridor, moving with a silence that belied his imposing frame. Twenty feet to the rear deck. Each step calculated, each breath controlled. The plush carpet beneath his feet absorbed the sound of his movement as he advanced, staying close to the wall.
Fifteen feet.
The yacht suddenly shuddered violently, the entire structure vibrating as more men boarded from what must have been a second vessel that had pulled alongside. Their footsteps thundered above, urgent and menacing. Ivan heard the distinctive sound of tactical equipment being distributed,the metallic clatter of extra magazines, the static bursts of radio communication. This was no ordinary security detail; this was a professional retrieval team.
Ten feet.
A door burst open ahead of him, and a guard appeared at the junction of the corridor, eyes widening in shock at the sight of Ivan. The man was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, wearing tactical gear with a cartel insignia embroidered on the shoulder. Before he could raise his weapon or shout an alarm, Ivan had crossed the distance between them in three silent strides. With brutal economy of movement, he slammed the guard's head against the wall with enough force to fracture the man's skull, then caught the unconscious body before it could hit the floor. The entire encounter lasted less than two seconds.
Ivan dragged the limp form into a nearby storage closet, appropriating the guard's radio and spare magazine. The ammunition wouldn't fit his Makarov, but the radio might provide valuable intelligence. He positioned the body to delay discovery and closed the closet door.
Five feet to the exit leading to the stern deck.
His hand reached for the door handle, muscles tensing for the final sprint to freedom, when the yacht's intercom system crackled to life. A voice boomed through the speakers, its timbre suggesting both education and unrestrained cruelty.
"Whoever you are, you picked the wrong fucking boat today."
Ivan froze, his hand hovering over the door handle as he recognized the voice instantly. Alejandro Vargas,the "caretaker" mentioned in the phone call. A name not included in his original brief, but one he knew by reputation all too well. High-ranking cartel lieutenant, former Colombian special forces, known for his sadistic interrogation methods and his collection of video recordings documenting his work. The intelligence community had a file on him three inches thick, filled with atrocities committed across three continents.
Ivan's mind recalibrated. This was no longer just a difficult extraction,it was potentially a suicide mission. But there was no going back. He pushed through the door onto the stern deck, immediately assessing his surroundings with the trained eye of a veteran operative.
The Miami skyline glittered in the distance, its gleaming towers catching the last rays of the setting sun, deceptively peaceful against the chaos unfolding on the yacht. The water below was dark and choppy with the approach of evening, small whitecaps visible in the fading light. The wind had picked up, carrying the scent of an approaching storm. A twenty-foot drop to the water, at minimum. Survivable, if he could clear the yacht's wake.
Before he could move toward the railing, the main deck erupted with movement. Men poured from both sides, emerging from behind cabins and equipment, weapons raised,at least a dozen cartel soldiers, all pointing automatic weapons at his position. The tactical precision of their formation spoke of military training, not the usual cartel muscle.
And there, in the center of the formation, stood Alejandro Vargas himself. A tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties, his silver hair slicked back from a face that might have been considered handsome if not for the cold emptiness behind his eyes. He wore an immaculate white linen suit that contrasted sharply with the blood-red sunset behind him, a large gold watch gleaming on his wrist. The man held a gold-plated Desert Eagle in one hand with the casual comfort of someone who had used it often, the massive pistol looking almost like an extension of his arm.
"So," Vargas said, his voice carrying a slight Colombian accent that added a musical quality to his words, "who the fuck do you think you are, coming onto my property and killing my men?"
Ivan remained silent, his mind calculating trajectories, angles, possibilities. Five bullets. Twelve armed men. Impossible odds by any rational assessment. Yet he had survived worse.
Vargas took a step forward, studying Ivan's face with cold curiosity, his head tilting slightly as if examining an unusual specimen in a laboratory. "Let me guess. Another one of those masked psychos, like the ones who hit our operations in Orlando last month? And Boca the week before?" He chuckled, but the sound held no humor, only a predatory anticipation. "You people have been a real fucking inconvenience, you know that?"
He gestured expansively with the gold pistol. "Six months of this shit. Six fucking months of finding my men with bullets in their heads, my shipments seized, my clients scared away." Vargas's eyes narrowed as he took another step closer. "Do you have any idea how much money you've cost me? How many explanations I've had to give to people who don't accept explanations?"
Ivan's eyes darted to the water below. Twenty feet down. A survivable jump, if he could make it to the railing. The distance between him and potential escape seemed to stretch impossibly.
"The thing is," Vargas continued, his tone almost conversational now, "you masked fuckers are like cockroaches. I kill one, two more appear. I shut down an operation, you find another. I change my security protocols, somehow you're still one step ahead." His face hardened. "It's almost like someone's feeding you information. Someone on the inside."
He signaled to his men, and they tightened their formation, weapons steady.
"But now," Vargas said, a smile spreading across his face that didn't reach his eyes, "now I finally have one of you. And you're going to tell me everything. Who you work for. How you find my operations. Who your contacts are." The smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure malice. "And then you're going to beg me to kill you, but I won't. Not for a very long time."
"Search him," Vargas commanded, and two men approached cautiously, weapons trained on Ivan's chest.
Time slowed to a crawl, the world narrowing to this moment of decision. Ivan knew he had one chance,one moment to act before he would be overwhelmed. The odds were impossible, but Ivan had built a career on defying impossible odds.
He lunged toward the railing, moving with an explosive burst of speed that belied his size, faster than the cartel soldiers anticipated. His powerful legs propelled him forward as the first shouts of alarm went up. His hand had just touched the cold metal of the railing when Vargas's voice cut through the chaos:
"Shoot his fucking legs! I want him alive!"
Gunfire erupted behind him, the sound deafening in the confined space of the yacht's deck. Ivan felt the first bullet tear through his right thigh, a searing burst of pain that sent white-hot flashes across his vision and nearly buckled his knee. The impact spun him partially, but he maintained his grip on the railing, forcing his damaged leg to support his weight.
The second bullet caught him in the left shoulder, the force of it spinning him further around. He could feel the hot gush of blood soaking his shirt, the tearing of muscle and tissue. Through the haze of pain, he registered Vargas's voice:
"I said alive, you idiots! Stop shooting to kill!" Vargas roared, his face contorted with rage. "I need him talking, not bleeding out!"
Despite the wounds, Ivan's momentum carried him forward, his body now half over the railing. He caught a glimpse of Vargas's face, seeing the moment when the cartel leader realized his prize was about to escape. The look of pure hatred that transformed Vargas's features was almost worth the pain lancing through Ivan's body.
"No! Stop him, you useless fucks!" Vargas screamed, rushing forward himself now, Desert Eagle raised.
Another bullet grazed Ivan's side as he pushed himself over the edge with his remaining strength, ripping through fabric and flesh. The last thing he heard before gravity claimed him was Vargas's promise, delivered with venomous intensity:
"I will find you! I will find everyone you care about! There is nowhere in this world you can hide from me!"
Then came the plummet toward the dark water below. For a brief, suspended moment, Ivan felt weightless, the cool evening air rushing past him, the pain of his wounds temporarily forgotten in the strange serenity of free fall. The Miami skyline tilted in his vision, the lights of the city blurring into streaks of gold and white against the darkening sky.
Then came the impact,cold, shocking, disorienting as the ocean enveloped him. The salt water rushed into his nose and mouth, invading his lungs before he could close them against the intrusion. The salt burned in his wounds like liquid fire, drawing an involuntary gasp that only pulled more water into his system. The contrast between the warm evening air and the relatively cool water sent his body into momentary shock.
For one dangerous second, Ivan felt himself sinking, the weight of his clothes and equipment pulling him down into the dark depths. The primal panic of drowning clawed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to overwhelm the discipline and training of decades.
Above him, the surface of the water erupted with impacts as bullets from the yacht pierced the waves, creating small explosions of white foam. The muffled sound of gunfire penetrated the water, distorted and alien. Ivan forced himself to dive deeper, away from the deadly rain piercing the water's surface around him. Each powerful stroke of his arms sent waves of agony through his wounded shoulder, the salt water both cleansing his injuries and intensifying the pain to nearly unbearable levels.
The water grew darker as he pushed himself deeper, using the gathering twilight and the yacht's shadow as concealment. His lungs began to burn with the need for oxygen, the pressure building in his chest. Twenty seconds. Thirty. His vision started to tunnel, black edges encroaching on his peripheral sight.
With one final, desperate kick, Ivan changed direction, swimming laterally away from the yacht's stern, staying beneath the surface as long as his oxygen-starved body would allow. When his lungs felt as though they would burst, he angled upward, rising toward the surface as carefully as his wounded body permitted.
He broke the surface with minimal disturbance, taking in a silent, desperate breath of air. The yacht was now thirty yards away, its deck swarming with activity. Searchlights had been activated, sweeping the water in expanding circles. In the distance, Ivan could hear the growl of smaller engines,they were deploying fast boats to search for him.
Vargas stood at the stern, his white suit gleaming in the growing darkness, surrounded by his men. Even at this distance, Ivan could sense the man's fury, could almost feel the promised retribution hanging in the air between them.
"Find him!" Vargas's voice carried across the water. "I want that piece of shit found! Check the marina, check the shoreline! He's wounded, he can't have gone far!"
Ivan treaded water silently, conserving his strength, calculating his next move. The current was beginning to pull him away from the yacht, toward the open sea.
With gritted teeth, he began to swim, using a modified sidestroke that minimized the movement of his injured shoulder. Each pull through the water sent fresh agony through his system, each kick with his wounded leg threatened to draw an involuntary cry of pain. But Ivan remained silent, his face a mask of determination as he focused on a single thought: survive now, regroup later.
Behind him, Vargas continued to shout orders, his voice growing fainter as the distance increased. The fast boats roared to life, their engines snarling as they began their search pattern, cutting through the waves with predatory intent.
Ivan swam onward, his blood leaving a trail in the dark water that would dissipate before anyone could follow it.
Ivan's strokes grew weaker. Each movement sent fresh waves of fire through his battered body, his wounded shoulder locking up, his legs trembling with exhaustion. The saltwater burned in his wounds, mixing with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.
The fast boats were sweeping the water behind him, their searchlights slicing through the darkness like hungry blades. He could hear the chatter of voices, the clatter of weapons being loaded, the dull thump-thump of his slowing heartbeat.
He wasn't going to make it.
The realization settled over him like a slow, suffocating weight. His limbs felt leaden, his body sinking inch by inch. He fought to stay afloat, but the water was pulling him down, greedy and relentless.
For the first time in years, Ivan felt something close to fear. Not of dying,no, he had made peace with that long ago. But of fading. Of becoming just another nameless body lost to the deep, erased by the tide, forgotten beneath the waves.
His vision blurred. His mind drifted. And then,
He heard her voice.
"For fuck's sake, Ivan, promise me you'll never do something this stupid again! I will call a plumber."
A bitter, broken laugh rasped from his lips. He could almost see her, standing in their tiny apartment back in Moscow as he was fixing a water pipe that went the worst way possible, arms crossed, giving him that look. The one that said she already knew how things would end, that she'd known from the moment she first laid eyes on his work.
"You're acting like you are smarter than the whole damn world. One day, that's gonna bite you in the ass just like now, and I won't be there to say 'I told you so.'"
His legs stopped kicking. His arms went slack.
She was always right.
The water closed over his head, and the world faded to black.
- TO BE CONTINUED -