Prague, December 18th, 2015.
My name is Finley Giles, I’m twenty-four years old, and have made more thefts than you have misspellings. I started out in a wretched slum with a mother who worked nights and a nonexistent father. I can steal anything, money, valuables, class, you name it.
Sprinting. Finley could feel the cobblestones through the soles of his feet. Each bound is a rhythmic beat. His heart is pounding; the vessels in his brain are throbbing. Finley ducks a corner, turning onto Kostečná. Snowflakes attack him. The shouts are getting louder. He hears screeching and revving. He sprints on, pumping his arms. Faster! A tall chain-link fence lies ahead. Finley jumps up, fingers hooking into the cold rusted metal. He pulls his right arm to the top of the fence. Underneath him black metal blurs past. The fence is torn from his hands and…then nothing. He floats in mid air. The car flies past carrying remnants of the fence. It breaks, screeching a high-pitched whine. The cold asphalt kisses Finley. Doors slam. Fifteen meters. Finley starts moving. The synagogue, elegant in its architecture, stands next to him, quiet.
“Get him, up ahead!” Chechen echoes and rebounds. Not much farther. A left and a right. He sees the bridge. Bronze angels holding torches mark each side. The air scorches his lungs, every breath a new burn.
CRACK.
Rifle fire shatters the evening. Lovely. He quickens his pace, the gentle crest of the bridge looms. His foot comes down and slips.
CRACK.
THWACK.
A dollop of glistening blood spurts forwards, following a declining arc before splattering the ground. Finley throws out his arms as his knees fail. The ground stings. Blood and dark phlegm spew into the snow but Finley crawls to the crest of the bridge. Ahead the buildings are flashing an incandescent red and blue. The České police have arrived. He grabs his shoulder, feeling for the exit wound. The wool is soaked. The police cars skid to a stop at the end of the bridge. Two seconds. He grips the stone railings, the ice slicing into his palms.
One.
Two.
Finley rolls over the railing, a rush of frigid air meeting him. The black ripples on the Vltava’s surface magnify. Crossing his arms over his chest, he closed his eyes. Let the boaters be drunk or asleep.
He hits the water.
The starved lungs shout for oxygen. He cups his hands and pulls water past him…once…twice…three times.
****
Klárov Lávky surveyed the river, his clean-shaven head prickled with irritation. Boliske was stupid to take that shot. Then again, he thought, Boliske was never the smartest, born from a meth-addicted whore and bounced to the streets. Klárov pulled out his burner phone, stabbing at the numbers.
“Yes.” A female voice answered.
“I need you to find a package, last seen off of Mánesüv. Male, dark hair, about two meters tall with a gunshot wound to the upper torso.”
“Condition of delivery?”
“Fragile.”
“Date of delivery?”
“Tomorrow.”
Silence.
“The package will be dropped at the cemetery.”
The call ended and Klárov exhaled, his nicotine-stained fingers already swapping out the phone for a cigarette. He turned to his men.
“Move along the riverbank, now!”
He lit the cigarette, the dull flicker highlighting his blue ink tattoos. Five rugged men faded into the west side. Klárov knew the chances of detection were slim, chances of survival, even slimmer.
****
Salvation. A small skiff with a forty horsepower outboard bobbed in the current. Finley swam another five yards in soaked clothes dragging like an anchor. He grabbed at the aluminum ladder at the stern. Two minutes before I go into shock. He rips off his wool jacket and the shirt underneath.
My name is Finley Giles, I’m twenty-four years old, and have made more thefts than you have misspellings. I started out in a wretched slum with a mother who worked nights and a nonexistent father. I can steal anything, money, valuables, class, you name it.
Sprinting. Finley could feel the cobblestones through the soles of his feet. Each bound is a rhythmic beat. His heart is pounding; the vessels in his brain are throbbing. Finley ducks a corner, turning onto Kostečná. Snowflakes attack him. The shouts are getting louder. He hears screeching and revving. He sprints on, pumping his arms. Faster! A tall chain-link fence lies ahead. Finley jumps up, fingers hooking into the cold rusted metal. He pulls his right arm to the top of the fence. Underneath him black metal blurs past. The fence is torn from his hands and…then nothing. He floats in mid air. The car flies past carrying remnants of the fence. It breaks, screeching a high-pitched whine. The cold asphalt kisses Finley. Doors slam. Fifteen meters. Finley starts moving. The synagogue, elegant in its architecture, stands next to him, quiet.
“Get him, up ahead!” Chechen echoes and rebounds. Not much farther. A left and a right. He sees the bridge. Bronze angels holding torches mark each side. The air scorches his lungs, every breath a new burn.
CRACK.
Rifle fire shatters the evening. Lovely. He quickens his pace, the gentle crest of the bridge looms. His foot comes down and slips.
CRACK.
THWACK.
A dollop of glistening blood spurts forwards, following a declining arc before splattering the ground. Finley throws out his arms as his knees fail. The ground stings. Blood and dark phlegm spew into the snow but Finley crawls to the crest of the bridge. Ahead the buildings are flashing an incandescent red and blue. The České police have arrived. He grabs his shoulder, feeling for the exit wound. The wool is soaked. The police cars skid to a stop at the end of the bridge. Two seconds. He grips the stone railings, the ice slicing into his palms.
One.
Two.
Finley rolls over the railing, a rush of frigid air meeting him. The black ripples on the Vltava’s surface magnify. Crossing his arms over his chest, he closed his eyes. Let the boaters be drunk or asleep.
He hits the water.
The starved lungs shout for oxygen. He cups his hands and pulls water past him…once…twice…three times.
****
Klárov Lávky surveyed the river, his clean-shaven head prickled with irritation. Boliske was stupid to take that shot. Then again, he thought, Boliske was never the smartest, born from a meth-addicted whore and bounced to the streets. Klárov pulled out his burner phone, stabbing at the numbers.
“Yes.” A female voice answered.
“I need you to find a package, last seen off of Mánesüv. Male, dark hair, about two meters tall with a gunshot wound to the upper torso.”
“Condition of delivery?”
“Fragile.”
“Date of delivery?”
“Tomorrow.”
Silence.
“The package will be dropped at the cemetery.”
The call ended and Klárov exhaled, his nicotine-stained fingers already swapping out the phone for a cigarette. He turned to his men.
“Move along the riverbank, now!”
He lit the cigarette, the dull flicker highlighting his blue ink tattoos. Five rugged men faded into the west side. Klárov knew the chances of detection were slim, chances of survival, even slimmer.
****
Salvation. A small skiff with a forty horsepower outboard bobbed in the current. Finley swam another five yards in soaked clothes dragging like an anchor. He grabbed at the aluminum ladder at the stern. Two minutes before I go into shock. He rips off his wool jacket and the shirt underneath.
