Valery Mironov’s wrists were shredded and his hands now slick with blood. He drew in a deep breath, absorbing the pain, and kept his gaze fixed on the back of Dmitry’s head. He didn’t flinch as he slowly drew one hand from the binding, tearing away more of the skin.

“We’re nearly there,” Dmitry said over his shoulder.

Mironov’s hand came free, and he quickly reached across to untie the other. When complete he sat still, watching Dmitry pilot the submersible ever deeper.

Dmitry had switched off all Mironov’s screens, perhaps not wanting him to know where they were. He continued to watch, and hoped when it came time to seize the craft, he could successfully subdue the man. If he had to kill him, then he would. He would rescue Cate and her friends or die trying.

Though Mironov wasn’t a pilot, he had watched enough to get an understanding of the basics. He looked along the banks of controls, dials, and screens – he needed little of the analytical technology, and only the maneuvering capabilities. It could be done.

“I know you are free.”

Dmitry’s words brought his head around. Mironov waited, but the pilot’s hands stayed at the controls and didn’t reach for the gun.

“Where are we going?” Mironov had no option now but to play for time.

Dmitry half turned, his grin now gone, and his eyes dead level. He was no longer the jovial clown, but now the killer he probably always was.

“Valhalla maybe?” He gave Mironov a sneering grin. “You are a rich and powerful man, Valery Konstantin Mironov. But I am afraid you also have rich and powerful enemies. Enemies who are patient, and far more ruthless than you.”

“You mean to kill me?” Mironov waited.

“That all depends on you.” Dmitry continued to smile.

“But then how will you escape?” Mironov tilted his head a fraction, studying the man.

Dmitry studied him for a moment. “Why not?” He shrugged. “We have a rendezvous out under the Bering Sea, and then we will be going for a little trip in the pod.” Dmitry’s eyes lost their focus, and he turned away. Mironov saw something behind the expression – doubt, regret perhaps; he wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but there was something there – a sliver of hope, perhaps.

“I don’t believe you’re doing this for money.”

Dmitry shook his head. “What good is money without health, security, or a future?”

“But not yours.” Mironov sat forward.

Dmitry just sat and stared out through the toughened glass window.

Mironov angled himself so he could see the side of the Russian pilot’s face. “I know Yusoff is blackmailing you, or he’s promised you something.” He continued to study the man, a picture forming. “No, perhaps not you, but he’s promised to do something for a friend, or maybe for your family.”