There it was again. The familiarity. Something in the casual shrug. Or was it the indifference to being bound and tortured?

She noted his attention. “What?”

“I feel like we’ve met before,” he said.

After looking him up and down, she said, “No.”

He wasn’t convinced. “What’s your name?”

“Asya,” she said. “Asya Machtcenko.”

Nope. Didn’t ring a bell.

He turned back to the rail, looking at a small Norwegian village in the distance. The collection of small buildings looked like they couldn’t support a population of more than a thousand. There was a single line of electrical wires leading into the town and only two roads. A long pier stretching out into the ocean held ten fishing boats.

Dashkov rested his elbows on the rail to Rook’s right. “You don’t want to go there. Let me take you a bit further. To civilization.”

“Why?” Rook asked as he glanced down at the flask in Dashkov’s hand. “Is it a dry town?”

The man didn’t laugh. “It is a cursed place.”

Rook turned to him. “Cursed by what?”

“Wolves,” he said. “Even out here you will hear them howl at night.”

“Wolves aren’t so bad,” Rook said. As a native of New Hampshire, he had a long love affair with the outdoors, and the idea of living among wolves, no matter how afraid people were of them, appealed to him.

“You wouldn’t say that if you heard them,” Dashkov said. “I have never felt such fear.”

“Superstitions,” Asya said with a shake of her head. She wasn’t buying it either.

“If it’s so bad, why does anyone live there at all?” Rook asked.

Dashkov shrugged. “I have not stopped to ask. No one does.”

“Then it’s safe to say not many people visit?”

The fisherman frowned and nodded begrudgingly. He could see Rook making up his mind. He placed a hand on Rook’s shoulder. “Please, Stanislav. I will not come back for you here.”

Rook looked at the shoreline, frigid and barren. The town appeared empty, though a few lights glowed in windows. The place was quiet, and despite Dashkov’s tales of frightful wolves, peaceful.

“No one will come for you,” Dashkov added.

Rook looked back at his new friend. “That’s the idea.”

Dashkov looked beyond Rook and met the eyes of Asya. She nodded. The village was the perfect starting point for both of them. He pocketed his flask and headed back to the pilothouse. “I would look the other way one last time, Stanislav. For you. For Galya.”

Rook tilted his head in thanks. “That’s all I ask.”

Epilogue

EIGHTY-SIX

Washington, D.C.