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I look at Lu. She nods.
“Let’s go!” Alex orders.
In a moment, Dzima, Alex, and I are on the raft until we anchor on the beach, the binoculars never leaving my face. “He’s heading toward a residential street in the distance.”
“We have to move!” Alex orders.
We run, chasing after Reznik, me barehanded because I still have no idea what’s happening, Dzima with a rope, Alex with a fishing net.
We are faster than him. I must’ve injured him pretty badly with the flare gun.
I’ve tracked people so many times back in Yemen. But you are never prepared for a chase in a Long Island beach neighborhood, tracking a guy who might be more dangerous than a bomb. And not with two crazy Eastern European guys who’ve had more cognac than I do before I pass out.
Humankind is amazing. You learn this at war of all places.
Apparently, this also happens on a calm evening in Brooklyn when some random guys decide to help you rescue your girl and catch a criminal and do that with a flimsy promise of a reward, just hoping that things will turn out good. Some people believe in goodness and love and helping others and yes, in the motherfucking happily ever afters.
Alex, you are a badass!
We are only forty feet away from Reznik, who limps badly, reaching the end of the beach line.
Alex raises his joined hands at him, mimicking a gun.
“Hold!” he shouts. “I’ll shoot!”
Is he fucking serious?
But Reznik halts, not even looking back as he raises his hands in the air.
“Dzima, rope! Fast!” Alex orders.
You think you know people? Think twice. Tito was right—never assume things.
Who knows when Dzima crafted a lasso, but it swings above his head as he runs toward Reznik, then throws the loop around him and yanks him off his feet.
“You kidding me?” I mumble, startled.
I’ve seen many things overseas. Most of it had to do with guns and heavy explosives.
Lassos? That’s for Western moves.
Or New York. Because Reznik wiggles like a worm on the sand, and Dzima tugs at the rope attached to him then walks up to him and sends a punch to his face.
Alex gives a backward nod in their direction. “Boxing State Champion of Belarus, 2015.”
“Don’t touch him,” I warn. “There might be poison on him.”
Alex only hums. “Want to strip him naked?”
“Let others handle it when we deliver him. We just need to figure out—”
“Hold up. Now, watch, American,” Alex says, walking up to a cursing Reznik.
Alex shakes the fishing net out and throws it like a cast, covering the ten square feet on top of Reznik, then tugs, closing him in.
I’m freaking speechless.
“????,5” comes from Reznik.
