Forty-eight hours later, my muscles ached more than they had the entire time I'd been in training, as I'd slept my way into the Ukraine in the back of a truck along with the rest of the team. We'd taken two vehicles, both semis to give us the best chance of success at getting past the border guards. Thankfully, the Black Sea Romani had greased the right palms, and we slipped over the border into the Ukraine at eleven at night while I dozed in the back of the truck. Unfortunately, while the trailer we were in was large, the six members of my team had to be kept cramped into the middle section of the trailer, wedged between a pallet of televisions and a collection of refrigerators that were going to be sold on the gray market that permeated the city.
Now, after being stuck in a cramped, cold trailer for close to twenty-five hours, with nothing but a couple of blankets, a carton of rations, two water cans, and a LED lantern to break up the monotony with my trailer mates, we were all stiff. The five men had at least been gentlemanly, and had given me a modicum of space to feel like I wasn't a female sardine crushed in a can with a bunch of males. Thankfully, our drive was at an end, and as our driver opened the small side door that was our only access in or out, I was grateful to touch the ground for the first time since my last toilet break seven hours earlier. “Tell me we're getting out in better conditions than we came in.”
“If everything goes to plan, yes,” one of the men said. “The Hardys will be getting out of the Ukraine quickly, while the rest of us will make our way back in a more casual manner. Our Black Sea friends will help us.”
“You aren’t too off-put by this, I hope?” I asked, as I looked the man in the eyes. He was young, like most of the men who had been sent for the mission, and wasn’t from the immediate Hardy family.
He chuckled and shook his head. “No offense, American princess, but Romani women know how to appreciate a man with a heroic story, and I’m not about to miss out on this.”
I smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go help unload.”
We were traveling light, with most of us carrying only a rifle outfitted with a screw-in silencer and two clips of ammunition. We didn't want to engage in a prolonged firefight, in fact if things went according to plan, not a single shot would be fired. It only took us about four minutes to fully unload everything for our mission. While we were finishing the last of our gear checks, Francois’s group came from up the road, their gear slung in their packs over their shoulders. “Ready?”
“Let's move,” he said. “We can stretch out as we walk — it's still five kilometers cross country to the property.”
“And we know he's still there?” I asked.
“I just spoke with my cousin Aleksander, he’s been watching the house for two days now. He said that Felix was seen inside having dinner yesterday, and that he has not left the premises since then.”
“Then let's move,” Francois said. “If he follows the pattern that they've said, he'll be going out for his morning run in about two hours. I'd like to be on the path when he does.”
We took off through the woods, following our local guide as he led Francois and I on the way. Five kilometers isn't much, only three miles, but we were moving through pitch blackness and through old growth European forest. With the constant stopping to check our position or listen for sounds, we only had forty-five minutes to spare when we reached the Romani observation point. Sergei spoke with his cousin in the alternatively guttural and liquid tones of Ukrainian-flavored Romani, nodding a few times. “Can I get a translation?”
Francois, who could understand well enough, whispered back. “They're just confirming that Felix is still there. Are you ready?”
I nodded, my grip tightening on my rifle that I hoped I didn’t have to use — I just had it in case of an emergency. “Let's go get Felix back.”
Francois nodded and turned to the other Romani, speaking slowly in his accent. They could understand him, and soon enough our teams split up again. The fifteen people, twelve Albanian/Greeks from the Hardys and three from the Black Sea, would go to four locations, the largest on the heaviest traveled route in and out of the estate. Two other groups would go to the north and south side in order to provide either support or distraction, depending on what was needed.
That left me, Francois, and one other who would cover the path that led along the Dnieper River. It was the path that Felix ran on most often according to our spies, one he ran almost every day. It was also the easiest point for us to get to, so we had plenty of time before the other teams were in place. As we waited, I tried to calm my nerves. I looked over at Francois, who was giving me a small grin. “Why are you smiling?”
“Heady, isn't it?” he asked, becoming the man that I'd fallen in love with one more time. He was cocky, he was certain, and he was enjoying the thrill of the moment. “The adrenalin rush right before doing a job.”
“Is that why you love it?” I asked, not contradicting his comment. “The rush of it all?”
“Some,” he agreed. “Although the reputation and the money were good reasons too. But that's over now.”
“You don't have to,” I whispered. “You can still do your jobs on your own, you know.”