I’m at JFK✈️, taking off soon. DEFCON 1 W/ Vince.
Oh God, I’m gonna need sweat pads at this rate. Not this. Not now! DEFCON 1 is imminent total nuclear war, a BFF code reserved for exceptional and catastrophic situations. March dumping me like a rag in Tokyo two years ago because he wasn’t ready for a relationship was a messy, tear-soaked DEFCON 2. David-the-clown-dick-accountant catching the bouquet and proposing out of the blue at Joy’s cousin’s wedding a close brush with DEFCON 1—especially when Joy said no in front of two hundred guests, and he sobbed back that she was the only woman he ever wanted children with.
Bits of data flit around and quickly rearrange themselves in my brain. Joy is at the airport, and to the best of my knowledge, current boyfriend and future ex Vince is in Cancún until Monday, where he’s doing a promo shoot for SciFi Unlimited. A tactical airstrike targeting him can mean only one thing. My gaze flits back and forth between Jan, Andrea, and the cockpit’s door. “I need a second. Yell or bark if there’s anything on the radar.”
Jan gives me a thumbs-up with his carbon-fiber hand. “Got it.”
Darkness swallows me as I slip out of the cockpit and tap a quick reply.
What’s the situation? Can’t pick up rn. Calling u back ASAP!
I wait for her answer, but what I get is a picture instead, and well, I guess the proper terminology for what is now gracing my screen is a nude. This tan, anonymous body, however, lacks Joy’s lush curves, and the pic is cropped right below a landing strip I can categorically say does not belong to her either—Joy’s a blonde.
What—or rather, who—am I looking at? The answer to that comes with Joy’s second text.
Bitch’s name is Cachemire.
He’s w/ her in Cancún 4 her shitty alien show. He’s soooooo fucking dead!!!!!!!!
Oh, Raptor Jesus, who sits in the firmament, save us from Armageddon. I’m not entirely sure what aliens have to do with any of this, but one thing is certain: Vince has been caught red-handed again, and this time I fear he did a lot more than just look. The days are long gone when Joy used to call him Vince-The-Cutest-Photographer-in-The-World. Things have been going downhill between them lately. Kinda like Sisyphus’s rock, if said rock kept sending Insta-filtered mirror-selfies and dick pics to doe-eyed twenty-year-olds, and Sisyphus pushed the delinquent boulder back up the hill every time anyway. Not sure I’m making much sense, but Joy is basically Sisyphus, and Vince is simultaneously in a committed relationship and active on Tinder.
I throw another glance at the threatening string of emojis onscreen, my thumb poised on the call icon. March is still out there, and we might have to perform an emergency takeoff any moment. I type “Full debrief needed!” and hit send just before Andrea’s frenzied bark whips me back to the present moment. Vince’s case will have to wait. I barge back into the cockpit, my pulse bounding from zero to sixty faster than a McLaren.
“Andrea, zwijg!” Andrea, be quiet! Jan shouts, effectively silencing the dog with his own powerful roar.
Silence falls again in the cockpit, and we listen. I can feel sweat beading on my temples as I strain my ears to pick up something over Andrea’s relentless panting. Seconds tick on an old analog clock on the dashboard. Five. Ten . . . and then I hear it too. Faint crackling sounds, growing closer. Someone is firing automatic rounds, and they’re coming our way.
Jan’s head snaps up at me, a voracious grin wiping off his frown. “That’s him all right.”
I barely notice his hand reaching for the rear hatch switch. I’m already scrambling to the back of the Ekranoplan as fast as my legs will allow. There, a dim silvery thread slashes through the penumbra as the hatch whirrs open. Cool air rushes in, and the steel jaws reveal an inky, oily sea lapping at the cargo ramp under a moonless sky. I grab a pair of night binoculars from a compartment on the wall and focus them on the lights growing on the horizon. The blurry greenish smudge becomes a tall, cleaver-shaped prow before I spot an artillery gun on the bridge. This isn’t your average coast guard boat. It’s an Arialah patrol ship, complete with 30mm automatic guns and a goddamn Mark missile launcher. Apparently, our client’s Emirati sponsor is not just pissed about seeing his business partner abscond, he’s also powerful enough to summon a military-class ship over a crepe dispute.
The Arialah is now fully visible, the blinding beams of its searchlights swiping at the calm sea in vain. At this rate, it’s us that they’ll detect, and I still can’t see March’s boat. Yet the Emirati did shoot at something, and they’re headed straight our way. A dark blot appears in my binoculars, so faint it might be a wave—or a modified stealth powerboat whose draft is so low the cabin windows sit right above the waterline. Oh, God; it’s March.
The ship’s guns swivel and boom again in the night, barely missing the black arrow tearing ahead of them. Meanwhile, the low hum of the Ekranoplan’s engines amps up to a threatening rumble. We’re about to take off, and my heart is drumming all over my body, pounding under my skull all the way to the very tips of my fingers. Jan isn’t gaining speed yet. He’s giving March time to catch up with us. Another ten seconds pass, and I no longer need the binoculars. I toss them on a nearby seat as the razor-thin black hull closes the distance between us, water misting in its wake.
March’s boat veers left, dodging another round of fire in a graceful arc to curb its speed—lest he wants to crash into us. He’s still coming on too fast, though. The speedboat drifts to a stop and crashes against the cargo ramp, leaving a deep dent in the fiberglass hull. The moment the boat stops moving, I race down the ramp, waddling ankle-deep in seawater. The cockpit doors slide open, vomiting a panicked troupe. I spot the gray hair and rumpled safari jacket of our client, Mr. Rotwang. Huddled at his side, the dark shape of a woman cloaked in an abaya and hijab, gripping the hands of two brown-haired boys—ten and six, according to their file. All are shepherded by a brawny figure towering over them. Black fatigues. Short chestnut hair that would curl if he only let it grow more than an inch. March made it. Amid the chaos and blinding swipes of the Arialah’s searchlights haloing him, our eyes meet, and it’s enough. It’s all I need. I read his reassurance in those dark-blue depths. We’re gonna be okay. One breath in, one out, and the moment is gone already.
“Jump!” March thunders to the panicked family when gunfire booms again, ever closer.
Mr. Rotwang reacts first, pulling the older boy with him while March tosses the youngest my way like a football. I intercept the wailing bundle of limbs in a catch worthy of an NFL contract and fall back on my butt, all air knocked out of my lungs. The kid in my arms is screaming for his mama, but she won’t move. The Ekranoplan’s rear hatch is already starting to rise, but she stands paralyzed on the wrecked speedboat’s deck, blinking terror-stricken eyes at the approaching patrol ship—like the proverbial deer caught in headlights. March makes the decision for her, shoving her overboard and into her husband’s waiting arms, before sliding down the cargo ramp in the nick of time.
A residual pool of water makes my coveralls stick to my back, and there’s something small and incredibly loud fighting my hold as the hatch clanks shut. But everyone’s safe. Both the patrol ship and speedboat have now disappeared behind a steel wall several inches thick. I scan my surroundings for March. He’s kneeling a few feet away and cradling a pink pet shuttle. I grin in absurd relief; Frederick the gerbil has been successfully extracted from Abu Dhabi.