Tuned out the whir of the drones, the fighting, the sound of her pulse whooshing in her ears.

Focus.

She saw Sergei, on the cruise, working on his computer. She’d sat down beside him in his stateroom with a set of binoculars, on loan from the ship, to watch whales. He’d closed his computer to sit next to her, asked her about something—she couldn’t remember. Maybe her family, friends.

She’d been so stupid. It was a miracle her mother hadn’t been caught in the cross fire. As it were, Zoey’s entire life had been upended.

Focus.

Sergei had kissed her, tried to pry her attention away from the whales. She’d let him, then pushed him away.

He’d been a little angry. Oh, how she should have paid attention.

Focus, Tae.

He’d gone back to his computer. Sat down at the table.

She’d felt guilty. Had gotten up to apologize. She remembered his fingers moving on his keyboard—no, his number pad—to unlock his screen.

A number. No, a date. Something that stuck in her head as odd.

“Time to die.”

The curse word at the end tore her gaze from the computer, and she looked up just as Sergei kneed Colt in the body.

He fell away, rolling, grunting. Oh—he was really hurt—

Stop. Because what was she going to do? Tackle him?

“Show up, with the talents God has given us, and say yes to the mission he’s given us.”

Her heart stopped when Sergei reached down and picked up a gun. It glinted bloodred in the light. He pointed it at Colt.

“Everybody has a right to be stupid, but some people abuse the privilege. You will die. And she will belong to me.”

No. She never would—

The words moved in her head.

She knew that quote.

Stalin.

And the memory, the numbers, the date clicked into place. March 5, 1953. The death of Stalin.

She typed in the numbers—03051953.

Nothing.

Colt kicked Sergei in the knee and for a second, she thought he might go down. Instead, he stumbled, then laughed. “C’mon, you can do better than that.”

C’mon, Colt. You’re stronger than you think!

Focus.

But all she could think was “The death of one man is tragic, but the death of thousands is a statistic.” Dr. Bella, about the sacrifice of their jobs.

Wait, in Russia, they did their dates backwards—or forwards, depending on the perspective. Day, month, year.

05031953. Please—

The screen unlocked.

A timer ran in the middle of the screen, counting down the minutes remaining. Ten minutes, thirteen seconds. She spotted a cancel option at the bottom of the box.

She looked up to see Sergei pointing a gun at Colt’s head.

She bit back her scream, because . . . because the last thing he needed was her, falling apart.

Please, God!

A crash sounded above her, and she looked up to see open sky.

Cancel!