When the Dark Wins

“No.”

That drew a laugh. First ever.

Fuck you.

Ten o’clock. I had hours. The sun was down at six, approximately.

I would do this. What did I need? Or rather what did I dare to take? Knife. Food and water would be nice but I’d leave with nothing but myself if I had to. They’d scour the waters for me, maybe use a floodlight, expect me to stick to land, so I’d chance it and go directly out. No storm, light winds.

And if the boat had no fuel? Pfft.

I could do this. No matter what.

From the noises, the house seemed mostly deserted.

At ten past six, I walked out onto the deck and paused. If he was coming... No footsteps sounded. Just the susurration of my breathing and the sea. I found the stairs that led down and sneaked to the next level, went past the landing, and kept going.

The ground floor was below. The steps leading to the beach and the boat were a few paces away.

Vitor pushed through the door that led outside, staring at a cell phone, then he raised his head and saw me.

So I stabbed him. The knife tip punched through his shirt. Shock hit his eyes. He flailed then sagged. Blood welled. I kneed him, hard, pushed him, left the knife in so he didn’t spurt blood all over me.

The pain of my own cuts made me clasp a hand to my stomach.

What else could I do? Hand to hand combat wasn’t foreign to an agent. Or knife play. Gun would’ve been nice but noisy, was all I thought as he staggered, fell against the closing door, slid to the floor, and died, gargling his last breath.

Massive blood loss. Cardiac arrest.

The knife had gone up under his ribs and reached precisely where I’d aimed. His heart. Surprising he had one. Emotions were for suckers. Hate though, a little hate leaked in. I kicked him in the face after I stole his gun. Stripped the holster from him quickly, extracted the knife, went through the door and down, out onto the sand.

Wait.

Maybe I should drag his body out of the lighted indoors?

I dithered, staring back up the steps. And what about water and food?

Sand under my feet. Freedom under my feet. Dithering...not the best way to act. I bolted for the boat and, grunting, heaving, pushed it out into the water then leapt in. The waves were small. Even the weather wanted me to go.

Then fucking go.

My calm had fled.

I seated the oars and began to row. Getting out through the breaking waves wasn’t easy, and using the motor would’ve been better if not for the noise. I managed. A breeze tousled my sweaty hair. Only a few lights were on at the mansion. He’d return by car, most likely. I’d seen no headlights signaling his return. I should keep watch for that.

I should try to get a half mile out? The motor would take me a lot further, fast, but would be loud. I’d need to judge when to use it, then head back to land at a wide angle, and find what? How would I leave this country?

I paused to try to figure that out, with my head in my hands. One thing at a time. Planning used to be a strong suit but I was a little messed up. With more distance from him, I’d improve, wouldn’t I?

After I seemed to have rowed a fair distance, I pointed the boat squarely into the waves to give myself time to start the motor.

Waves slapped the underside, splashing spray into the air, onto my face, arms. The moon was rising, sending a dribble of light over the sea. The villa lights showed but I’d heard no sirens. Headlights had shone there but I couldn’t tell who they’d been or if they’d stopped at the villa.

They’d call the police when they found Vitor.

Unless Isak told them not to.

It must be nine or ten by now.