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been.
    He lay flat, belly first. The cold metal saturated his core. The men circled the crate, didn’t find him, and then spoke to each other in a smattering of nearly-silent Russian.
    Zach stayed down until he heard them pass. Quickly, he judged his options. The jump to the next container was not far, but it would be noisy and kill his knee. Turning, he eyed the path on either side. He could see the receding forms of the two men – they each had rifles. He cursed under his breath.
    Climbing back down, he hit the cement with a soft thud, gripped his Colt for comfort, and then…
    Ran.
    His body pumped hot with adrenaline. He streaked across the aisle to the opposite side. For brief seconds, the containers hid him again, giving him thin relief. He peered out and continued on, dodging, running, stopping, then running again until he was within yards of darkness and freedom. 
    But he heard the doors of the Suburban slam shut just as he made another zigzag. Panic rising, he kicked into high gear.
    The engine revved, and tires screeched, burning rubber. But it sounded distant. Like a clouded dream.
    Breathing hard, legs on fire, chest bursting, Zach darted out into a passage but realized his error too late. Bright headlights suddenly blinded. Shots rained, spitting into the ground at his heels. Hot lead ripped through his left shoulder, drilling into muscle, scraping bone.
    On instinct, he aimed his Colt straight for the driver and fired.
    The windshield fissured into a spider web. The beast careened to the right with a terrible screech of agony. Zach didn’t wait to see whether his bullet had found its mark. He turned and raced down the street – just two blocks, and he was home free. But then–
    BANG!
     
     
    A venomous Jaguar F-TYPE Coupe in liquid gunmetal skin prowled into the dark shipyard. The city lights on the opposite bank caressed the luxury vehicle with colorful streaks as it crunched gravel to roll up next to the desecrated Suburban.
    The SUV sat quietly now, engine cooling down, windshield eye broken, licking its wounds after the accurate shot. But some distance away, on the ground, wading in and out of consciousness, was the trespasser responsible. The rogue. Bleeding from his chest.
    The F-TYPE’s barely audible engine powered off.
    A man by the name of Djurdjanovic went quickly to open the driver’s side door, speaking in Russian to the shadowed interior. “He has no identification, but it’s him alright.”
    From the inside of the vehicle, an enigmatic Slavic voice answered. “Did you contact my son to verify?”
    “Yes. He has confirmed. The Fisher was on the money.” He paused. “Do we kill him?”
    An immediate reply failed to come. But the man inside the Jaguar emerged, stately, and wearing a fine wool suit, white shirt, no tie. He had a slight smattering of grey to his black hair. But he wasn’t old at all – at least not more than forty-seven. Tall, slim of figure, possessing few wrinkles, straight Roman nose, and narrow of face. Handsome by scientific standards. However, his sharp eyes held no compassion or veracity.
    He shrugged and adjusted the lapels of his suit. “Where is he?” he asked, taking out a cigarette and lighting it, cupping his hand around the flame.
    “Over here,” Djurdjanovic replied, gesturing to the man on the ground, draining of life.
    The owner of the Jag nodded once, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, and let the smoke plume from his nostrils before he took a step. But instead of following Djurdjanovic, he walked around to the passenger’s side and opened the door.
    A beguiling beauty in a sea green cocktail dress turned her sapphire eyes to him. Her creamy hand toyed with a golden oval locket, drawing attention to her plunging neckline and enticing swell of her breasts.
    He peered into the coupe with a familiar smile. “Join me, ptichka .”
    She bristled at the pet name. Little bird. “It’s cold, Ivan ,” she bit off in accented English.
    Ivan replied in