Chapter 15
Over the past three days, Leo had made landfall three times. He stayed on the ground for an hour and a half to two hours each time, then soared back into the sky. Ari was aware of this but made no attempts to attack. During all these days, he was occupied with a more important task aimed at catching Leo off guard and finishing him off once and for all.
Ari was completely unconcerned about why his prey was risking his life by leaving the plane; what he was doing during those two hours on the ground didn’t matter. Even if Leo was trying something he thought might help him avoid his grim fate—it wouldn’t work. His destiny was sealed, and no one could change that decision. At least, no one had ever succeeded. It was only a matter of time before Ari claimed the soul that rightfully belonged to him.
And to succeed in that, Ari did something he had never done before. He spent a whole three days preparing!
He acted immediately. Quickly accepting his last failure, he calmly placed the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. His vessel collapsed onto the asphalt next to the body that had once housed Rion.
Within a minute, Ari awoke in one of the morgues in America, in the state of Nevada, not far from Las Vegas. It didn’t take him long to acquire clothes and even a car. He had spent a lot of time studying various places on Earth’s surface that might come in handy in urgent situations. Now was one of those times.
The United States Air Force base—that’s where he needed to go. One of the primary functions of the airbase was to train fighter pilots. Exercises were conducted there regularly, which was exactly what Ari required.
Fifty kilometers of road, about forty minutes of calm driving, and Ari stopped in front of the checkpoint. Naturally, no one allowed him onto the premises—the soldier, in a less than polite tone, strongly suggested he get lost and never come back. But at this stage, Ari hadn’t planned on entering the base. All he needed was to see the guard’s face, learn his name—Damian—and leave.
That same evening, after Damian finished his shift and went home, Ari was waiting for him. He followed him into the building, pulled out a folding knife, and plunged it straight into his heart. It wasn’t Ari's favorite way to kill—slitting the throat was more enjoyable and far easier than piercing the rib cage, and it didn’t require as much precision. But the guard needed to be without visible injuries; there was no need to draw his colleagues' attention with a huge gash from ear to ear.
The next morning, Ari was at his new workplace, using the body of the deceased Damian. To avoid alarming everyone with his glowing red eyes, he had prepared ahead of time by purchasing high-quality colored lenses. Ari made the most of his temporary employment and managed to gather information about the person directly involved in scheduling the training flights. From this position, he couldn’t achieve much more. So, it was time to think about getting a promotion.
It took Ari nearly two days to track down Lane—the one in charge of the schedule—and take his life and body. Now he could easily access the base, enter his new office, and with minimal effort, uncover all the details of the upcoming student flights.
Orson Bailey—Ari had chosen him as his target because his flight was scheduled for the very next day. Ari spent half a day following him, waiting for the perfect moment to take over his body while Orson was enjoying a fun time with friends at a bowling alley. A good opportunity arose when the future pilot left the group and went to the bathroom.
How fortunate that, aside from Orson, there was no one else in the bathroom. No witnesses, no fuss. With little effort, almost lazily, Ari plunged the knife into his heart just as Orson finished relieving himself. The body swap happened instantly. Ari propped up the now-empty vessel on the toilet, leaned it against the stall wall, and closed the door. He then covered his eyes with new lenses and walked out.
The newly transformed Orson Bailey was ready to take the cockpit of the fighter jet. He was scheduled for several hours of training on how to destroy ground targets with missiles, all under the close supervision of an instructor behind him. Ari had absorbed all of Orson’s knowledge about the fighter jet, so controlling it would be no problem. However, he intended to make a slight adjustment to the flight plan. His target wasn’t on the ground—it was in the air.
And for that, he wouldn’t need an instructor.
***
In the last three days, I had already made three landings. After learning from the first excursion, I took much greater care of my safety with each subsequent outing. Now, every step I took on the ground was protected by FOURTEEN heavily armed bodyguards. I moved around the city escorted by four armored SUVs. Two specialists tracked all my movements via satellite, monitoring me closely. It turned out that the undead do not emit heat, and with the help of some advanced technological tools, it was possible to detect their approach using satellite data.
Perhaps even the President of the United States wasn’t guarded as well as I was. Literally, nothing could get through to me—not even a fly. Seriously, a FLY! I saw with my own eyes how one of my bodyguards caught a fly mid-air and killed it. He then said something through his internal comms to his colleagues. It looked like he reported, “Fly neutralized, all clear.”
I was ready for any attack from Ari. At the very least, I was certain that he would appear sooner or later. But despite the fact that I spent around two hours on the ground each day, giving him plenty of opportunities to strike, he never showed up once.
This unsettled Rion greatly. Ari was not the kind of person to give up, and his absence was far more alarming than any feeble attempts at an attack. Rion sensed that Ari hadn’t left, that he hadn’t abandoned this world. He was still somewhere on the surface, and he wasn’t idling—he was likely preparing something truly dangerous for me.
I wasn’t wasting time either. In three days, I managed to meet and speak with three members of the board of directors. How did it go? Let’s just say that if I kept a diary, the last three days would have been described something like this:
Day 1 – Success!
My plane landed in the afternoon in Barcelona, Spain. There, I was scheduled to meet with 30-year-old Peter Price, the owner of 7% of the company’s shares. After the fiasco with Vincent, I simply had to succeed with the next board member on the list. And after reviewing the intelligence report, I decided that Peter was the perfect candidate for this.
The main reason for my choice was that Peter played amateur football almost every day while on vacation. And what better way to bond with someone than through football? Although the game took place in an open area, the security measures convinced me to move forward with the plan.
We made a quick stop at a sports store along the way, where I bought a football kit and sneakers, and then we headed to the field.
This was clearly my day! First of all, I was lucky that they were short one player, so my arrival was just in time. Secondly, I was fortunate to end up on the same team as Peter. Thirdly, despite not having kicked a ball in a while, I hadn’t lost my touch. Everything went perfectly—Peter turned out to be a pleasant, easygoing guy, simple as a stick. Almost from the first few minutes, we synced up on the same wavelength, and together we scored multiple goals against the local team.
Football wasn't the end of it. After an hour of running around the field, Peter suggested that our team celebrate the solid victory with a beer. A few people agreed, and we spent the next hour chatting about all sorts of topics.
Peter and I could have become best friends, and I hoped that over time, if—WHEN!—I became a board member, that’s exactly what would happen. In just two short hours, we had bonded as much as two people can in such a brief period.
I decided not to mention the company—he would have surely figured out that our meeting was no coincidence. Upon returning to New York, we agreed to meet up more often on the football field, and with that, we parted ways.
I returned to the plane with a solid sense of accomplishment. He remembered me, remembered my name. Yes, he’d be quite surprised when he saw my name on the list of candidates for the board. But he wouldn’t dare think that I had intentionally befriended him that day. Everything went too smoothly and effortlessly. I’d even say that he practically offered me his friendship. So, in conclusion, everything pointed to the fact that at least a significant portion of his votes would go in my favor. And that’s a success!
Rion had clearly underestimated my charm.
Day 2 – Failure!
The next board member was waiting for us in Los Angeles. Or rather, SHE was. Celia Reed, 41 years old, owner of 5% of the company’s shares. Buoyed by the success of the previous day, I had no doubt that this meeting would go just as well. After all, she was a woman! A conversation on topics that interested her, a bit of flattery, a touch of flirting—and done! Especially since women her age, who were single, highly valued attention from charming handsome men like me.
I wasn’t planning to cross any lines, no matter what was at stake. My beloved wife and child were waiting for me back in Switzerland, and my loyalty to them was unshakable. It would have been enough to charm Celia, make her believe in a second date, and then, after the vote, back off.
I had been assured by my spies, who had been watching her for about a month, that she was single and not seeing anyone. They also informed me about her upcoming social event for 200 high-profile guests. Getting an invitation wasn’t too hard. I had plenty of acquaintances in the States, and they had their own connections, and so on... In short, the invite was arranged fairly quickly.
The evening was extravagant: expensive décor, elite alcohol, loads of food, and everyone dressed as if it were the Oscars. It wasn’t for nothing that I put on a tuxedo, otherwise, I would have looked ridiculous.
As soon as I arrived at the party, I immediately started scanning the crowd for Celia. I found her within a few minutes, surrounded by five other women. Deciding to wait until she was alone, I started a conversation with a couple of millionaires about business. We first discussed my affairs, then theirs, and then those who didn’t even deserve the title of a businessman.
I kept glancing at Celia for a whole half hour until it started to seem like she was planning to spend the entire evening with that group. Time was a luxury I couldn’t afford, especially since my prolonged stay on land increased Ari’s chances of success. Despite having a solid security detail, staying too long was not part of my plan. So, I said goodbye to my conversation partners and headed toward Celia.
As I got closer, I overheard their conversation. They were discussing a recent Jean-Paul Gaultier fashion show. I had the chance to meet him once for a brief few minutes. To seamlessly join the conversation, I casually dropped that he was almost a close friend of mine. That was enough to get my foot in the door and start building rapport.
I’ve always been good at keeping a conversation going. Soon enough, I became one of the “in” crowd among these chatty, snooty hens. The next half hour was spent engaging with them on various topics, until, one by one, they started to leave our little circle.
And there we were, just the two of us left. I brought out all the heavy artillery: charm, wit, humor. I was working her over with everything I had. She was absorbing every word, laughing at every joke, and watching my every move.
And then, suddenly, she wanted to leave…
Out of nowhere, completely unexpectedly. It was as if I had embarrassed myself in front of her. But no, it definitely wasn’t because of me. Not wanting to let her slip away, I made one last attempt—I all but openly hinted at my interest in her, my attraction. In return, she gave me a condescending smile and a shocking response.
“I enjoyed our conversation,” she said. “You’re handsome. Very handsome, actually. But you’re just not my type.”
An old, twisted hag, and I wasn’t her type? What nonsense! But that wasn’t the part that shocked me. Not wanting to be seen as a failed Casanova, I tried to exit the situation with dignity.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” I said, trying to make it seem like she had misunderstood me. “Though you are quite an attractive woman. It’s been a pleasure talking with you, and I simply didn’t want to lose such a great conversational partner.”
It seemed to be working.
“But now that you’ve mentioned ‘type,’ I’m suddenly curious... what exactly is your type?”
Celia cast an endlessly long, lustful glance at the backside of a beautiful girl who just happened to be walking past us. Then she looked back at me and slyly raised her right eyebrow, as if to say, “There’s your answer.”
I stood still for a while, watching her as she turned and walked away to strike up a conversation with another woman. All that time wasted trying to charm a lesbian. If I had known, I would’ve gladly played matchmaker for her, just to increase my chances of getting her votes. This was a total failure!
Not that the meeting went as horribly as with Vincent. Maybe I could still count on something from her during the vote. But then I remembered—of the four candidates for the board, there was one woman. And if she happened to be attractive, who would Celia choose to give her votes to? All I could do was hope she would prioritize professionalism.
Day 3 – Frightening Uncertainty...
That day, I was supposed to meet Ryan Woods—a 35-year-old who owned 12% of the company's shares. However, my spies informed me that he had been bedridden with the flu for five days straight and hadn’t left his apartment. On the sixth day, though, he planned to attend an important meeting. My spies had done a fantastic job—they were monitoring his emails, listening to his phone calls, and knew exactly where the meeting was taking place and the route he’d be taking.
So, Ryan had to be postponed by a day. To avoid a gap in my schedule, I filled it with the last remaining board member—none other than the chairman himself! Harvey Yang, 44 years old, and the owner of a whopping 26% of the company’s shares! Twenty-six votes! He needed a special approach, an impeccable pitch. I had to make him see that I was the best candidate for a seat on the board. And I had a very solid plan to achieve that.
From my informants, I knew he was vacationing in Cuba. Most of his vacation involved lying on the beach, his face buried in his laptop. Twice a day, at the same lounge chair, at the same time. So, when he arrived for his next beach session, I was already waiting on the chair next to him.
The plan was as follows:
First move – A loud, serious phone conversation, supposedly with someone responsible for buying and selling stocks. I would spout off smart-sounding statements about various securities. Harvey would definitely overhear me and appreciate the wisdom of my words. I knew stocks very well.
Second move – Harvey would naturally strike up a conversation with me once I finished my "monologue." Who wouldn’t want to chat with such a savvy investor? But if that didn’t happen, then...
Third move – I’d ask him to borrow his laptop, under the pretext of checking the stock market, and strike up a conversation while doing so. Then I’d dazzle him with my knowledge, hint at my ambitions for the future of a certain company (without mentioning that the company was his), drop a few clever remarks, casually sprinkle in some humor, and wrap it all in a friendly, laid-back manner.
I had been preparing for this encounter for a long time, and my lines were memorized to perfection. Now it was just a matter of delivering them, which I set about doing.
First move went perfectly. The second failed, but I hadn't pinned all my hopes on it. It was time to employ the third.
As planned, I turned to Harvey and politely asked if I could borrow his laptop for a couple of minutes when, suddenly, something unexpected happened.
"Leo Rutis!" he said. "What a surprise! What a COINCIDENCE"—he emphasized that last word.
My thoughts scrambled. My brain raced to figure out how to proceed.
"Do we know each other?" I feigned surprise, trying to hide the fact that I'd been found out.
"Come on, you knew where to find me, and I know why you're here. You think you're the only one who's clever?"
It was over. Totally, utterly over. Of course, Harvey had seen my file, my photo, and immediately guessed my intentions. I stood there speechless while he smiled, looking me straight in the eyes.
"But you don't have to worry," the chairman finally said. "Unlike some of my colleagues, I judge people both from a personal and professional standpoint. Right now, conversations are being held with many of the people you've worked with or done business with. That will help me form a preliminary opinion about you—both as a person and as a businessman."
I frantically tried to recall every person I had ever worked with. A handful, maybe, wouldn't have much good to say about me, but the vast majority? I had never betrayed, deceived, or left anyone penniless. Maybe I still had a chance to win Harvey’s votes?
"I..."
"As you can imagine, this company is extremely important to me," he interrupted. "And the only people steering it will be those whose interests align with mine."
"Mr. Yang..."
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Leo Rutis," he suddenly stood and extended his hand. "I think we'll have a more meaningful conversation after the vote. So, see you in a few days."
He knew I had prepared for this meeting and had no interest in hearing my rehearsed speech. Any words I said would come across as insincere, nothing but flattery. All I could do was shake his hand and be left alone with my thoughts.
That day, nothing was in my control. I couldn't influence the chairman's decision. But, at least, I hadn’t ruined my position like I did with Vincent. Harvey remained calm about my sudden appearance.
All was not lost.
What did I have two days before the vote? Something vague with Harvey, success with Peter, and two complete failures with Vincent and Celia. This arrangement was far from ideal, but I still had one last chance to tip the scales in my favor.
Ryan Woods—the flu-ridden board member with 12 votes to his name.
As soon as I finished my meeting with the chairman and returned to the plane, I immediately began reviewing the intel on Ryan. My brain strained as I thought about how to get the shareholder to vote for me—not just part of his votes, which might not be enough, but all of them. What could push him to do that? Hell, he would need to be a childhood friend or owe me a life debt!
I racked my brain, scanning the text over and over, until suddenly I noticed a single line of four words. My imagination instantly sparked in a new direction! There it was—the solution! Risky, improper, but effective! It could work! It had to!
I meticulously thought out my idea, down to the smallest details, and, as usual, headed to Rion with my plan. Throwing the papers down in front of him, I quoted the very four words with a triumphant grin.
"He can’t swim," I said.
I had no idea how the spies got hold of this information—maybe they’d read it in some private messages—but it rightfully ranked first in the espionage hall of fame.
"Important info," Rion replied with blatant sarcasm. "How’s that supposed to help you?"
"We’re going to drown him," I said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Hmmm..." Rion pretended to think. "Do you think he'll be so thrilled that he'll immediately give you all his votes?"
"He'll hand them over as soon as I pull him out of the water. Either all the votes or at least the majority. He’ll owe me his life and—"
"This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard," Rion interrupted.
"Every idea of mine you’ve called dumb!" I protested.
"Now, even the idea where you rely entirely on charm doesn’t seem so bad."
Rion was savoring the moment, mocking me. I shot him a sarcastic look, and he softened his expression.
"Alright," Rion finally said. "If we’re drowning him, we’re drowning him. Go on."
"So, the guys really outdid themselves this time. They did their job better than anyone else could. We land in New York. We know Ryan has a meeting tomorrow at 9 a.m. Turns out, he’s an unusual millionaire—no extra demands. No security, no personal driver. He drives himself around in his one and only car. Here’s the route from his apartment to the meeting spot." I pointed at the paper with the map drawn out. "We can see that he drives down this road, turns, and then heads along the bay. We’ll make sure he doesn’t turn, and that he flies straight into the bay."
I paused dramatically, looking at Rion. He looked back at me silently.
"This is the part where you're supposed to ask, 'How are we going to do that?'..." I reminded him, recalling his usual question before every job.
Rion raised an eyebrow mockingly, asking the question with just his gaze. I sighed and continued.
"I know people who know people who will hack his car and make some adjustments to the controls. At a certain moment—at just the right time—his steering will lock up, the gas pedal will stick, and the brakes will fail. To make sure the guardrail doesn’t stop him, we’ll hire a couple of guys to dismantle the railing overnight. He’ll fly straight into the bay. Then, I jump into the water, pull him out, and save him."
Rion studied the map on the table for a while, and I patiently waited for his response.
"It’s worth a try," he suddenly smirked.
No objections? I decided not to say that out loud, and instead, quickly went to make the necessary calls. For the first time, Rion didn’t tear my idea apart. Maybe it really was a good one, and for once, our opinions aligned? To be fair, he had criticized my past ideas for good reason—most of them had failed.
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The next morning, Rion and I sat in an armored van, parked near the future accident site. Several bodyguards were with us, while others spread out along the perimeter of the street, blending in as ordinary citizens. Security, as always, was top-notch, and there were no alarming reports from the watchers above (the ones monitoring the perimeter via satellite).
In my hands lay a tablet, the screen showing a red dot on the city map—a tracker installed in Ryan’s car. The experts who modified the victim’s vehicle had already reported that the job was done. All it would take to activate the steering and pedal malfunctions was the press of a single button. The rest, as they say, was just a matter of technique.
For the last half hour, the dot on the screen remained motionless, until it finally started moving.
"He’s on the move," I announced the unnecessary information to Rion, who was also watching the tablet.
Ryan left the parking lot and headed down exactly the road we needed for our setup. He turned at the intersection closest to us and stopped at a traffic light. My finger hovered over the button, ready to press it as soon as his car passed the designated mark.
"I didn’t want to bother you with extra questions yesterday," Rion suddenly said, "but I do have a small one."
"Perfect timing," I replied curtly.
"What if he can’t get out of the car once it crashes into the water?"
"He’ll manage. The sunroof will open simultaneously with all the other malfunctions. I asked the guys to take care of that at the last moment."
"And what if he hits his head on the steering wheel and gets knocked out?"
"First of all, he always wears his seatbelt," I began reciting the spies’ intel. "Second, his car is a ridiculously expensive custom build with twelve airbags and a hundred other safety features too long to list. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ejects through the roof like a fighter pilot."
"Just in case—how long can you hold your breath underwater?"
"No idea. It'll work, stop distracting me."
Ryan had already passed the last traffic light and was accelerating toward our location. Besides the tracker, my tablet showed the speed of his vehicle. I watched as it climbed steadily, waiting. 10 kilometers per hour. 20. For the gas pedal to stick, the driver needed to press it hard enough, or else the car wouldn’t gain enough speed—despite the loose guardrail, a low speed might prevent the vehicle from flying into the water.
The needle on the dial passed the 30 kilometers per hour mark. 40. That was more than enough. The car was moving smoothly, heading straight for the weak section of the guardrail. There was no traffic ahead of him, no one he could crash into. Ideal conditions. Everything was falling into place. It had to work.
I took a deep breath and pressed the button.
Four green checkmarks lit up on the screen, confirming the failure of the brakes, the gas pedal sticking, the steering locking, and the sunroof opening. Ryan’s speed continued to climb—50 kilometers per hour, 60, 70. I glanced out the van window and watched in anticipation as he zoomed past us. For a brief moment, I saw his panic, the fear, the futile attempts to steer, and his foot frantically stomping the brake.
His car smashed through the guardrail with a deafening crash, sending the barrier flying, and disappeared from view. In the next second, I heard the loud splash of water.
It worked. The experts had come through, every modification had functioned perfectly. For a fleeting moment, I imagined what I would feel if I were in Ryan’s shoes, and the thought made me uneasy. Tearing my eyes away from the spot where his car had gone off the cliff, I looked at Rion.
"When do you plan to jump?" he asked calmly, but I could hear the urgent hint in his tone, suggesting that I should already be moving.
"Give him 30 seconds," I answered without hesitation. "Let the fear consume him completely, let him think he’s dying. After something like that, the rescuer will become like a brother to him."
"You're a cruel man," Rion remarked.
"Not me. Life."
It did sound cruel, but I had planned it this way from the start and didn’t want to deviate. If Ryan wasn’t truly submerged in the water, and I pulled him out too quickly, the effect wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t have enough time to be truly terrified if he saw help rushing toward him right away. He had to believe there was no escape. That he was done for.
That’s what I thought when planning the whole thing.
Now that it had all happened, even five seconds felt like an eternity. I stared out the window, almost longing for the thirty seconds to be over immediately. Feeling Rion’s gaze on me, I looked back and realized that delaying was not such a great idea.
“Damn it,” I said, and dashed out of the van.
I stopped at the edge of the cliff and looked down. Ryan’s car was completely submerged! Quickly removing my shoes and jacket, I took a deep breath and dove into the bay.
What a cold damn water! Focusing on the task at hand, I tried to ignore the icy needles piercing every inch of my body and opened my eyes. The visibility was so terrible that I could barely see my outstretched hand. But, fortunately, my searching gaze caught a faint glow emanating from the car’s headlights. Thank goodness for the law requiring all drivers to keep their headlights on at all times!
With all my strength, I swam toward the light, hoping to encounter Ryan as he emerged from the car at any moment. The vehicle had sunk to the bottom at a depth of five meters, and I swam quickly, but I didn’t cross paths with the poor guy. Was he still sitting in the cabin?
As I got close to the car, I noticed the open sunroof. A thought crossed my mind: could it be that Ryan had managed to escape, and I just missed him? In such murky water, that was quite possible. But since I had made it to the bottom, I might as well find out. I swam to the front door and pressed my forehead against the glass, trying to spot the driver inside.
Nothing at all. I wanted to believe that there was no one inside...
Just then, a palm struck the inside of the glass! In the next moment, a face distorted by terror appeared. I saw him tugging at something on his shoulder with his other hand. The seatbelt! He couldn’t free himself! What a wretched irony—the belts were meant to save lives, yet in Ryan’s case, they were hindering his rescue.
Once again, Rion was right—his victim was indeed stuck in the vehicle. His constant correctness was starting to irritate me.
I hesitated for just a second, then grabbed the door handle and began to pull.
No luck.
Abandoning that idea, I moved to the sunroof and swam into the cabin. Ryan was frantically tugging at the seatbelt, trying to unbuckle it. I foolishly hoped that he was unable to perform such a simple task due to overwhelming fear, so I quickly took the initiative. But the problem lay elsewhere—the button was truly stuck and wasn’t responding to my pressing.
Damn it! Why didn’t I bring a knife?
My lungs sent a signal to my brain that I was running out of air. I needed to hurry. I groped around the car’s dashboard, feeling around for the glove compartment, which I managed to open. I began blindly sifting through its contents—papers, something that felt like files, and a small book. Something hard! I grabbed it, bringing it closer to my eyes—a gun!
And yet, Ryan wasn’t entirely foolish when it came to self-defense—he always had a firearm with him. Suddenly, he squeezed my hand tightly, and I could see that he was gasping for air—he had run out of oxygen, and it was only a matter of time before I would too.
I pressed the barrel of the gun against the jammed seatbelt button—if that didn’t work, I would have to shoot the belt itself. I made sure that the bullet wouldn’t hit either of us and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
I pulled the trigger several times.
NOTHING, WHAT A COMPLETE FAILURE!
The gun refused to work underwater. Ryan was shaking my hand, his eyes wide with terror, his body beginning to convulse. I was struggling to hold on myself; panic was rising inside me. To avoid drowning, I needed to swim to the surface now.
But I didn’t want to give up. Grabbing the gun by the barrel, I began pounding the button with the handle. Ryan suddenly stopped shaking me, his grip slackened, and his hand drifted away. I was straining, my eyes felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets from the lack of air.
I struck it once, twice, three times—the button wouldn’t budge. My lungs were reaching their limit, and I had to obey them. Staying down longer wouldn’t do any good for either me or Ryan. I needed to surface, grab some air, and dive back down. That’s what I intended to do, hitting the button one last time.
And then, to my surprise, it worked!
The seatbelt released, freeing the unconscious captive. I immediately left the cabin through the sunroof, reached in, and pulled Ryan out with me. I was trembling all over; I couldn’t take it anymore; I needed damn air!
I swam with one arm while holding my victim from my horrendous plan with the other. Rion was right; I had come up with utter nonsense! Why didn’t he talk me out of it? I needed air!
I had only a little distance left to swim—five meters, four! Just endure for a few more seconds! Cramps were hitting me; I needed air! NOW! IMMEDIATELY!
I could see the surface; it was so close! I had to make it! I must!
I need ai...
I need ai...
Ai...
Ai...
***
Ari sat in the cockpit of the fighter jet, strapped in with his helmet on. The glass canopy over the cockpit was already closed, the plane had received clearance for takeoff, but Ari hadn’t touched a single button. He stared straight ahead, motionless, doing nothing. The instructor behind him had already given the command to start several times, but Ari ignored him.
“Hey, did you forget what to press?” The instructor’s voice in his headset was persistent.
Ari wasn’t sure he was meant to take off now. Something had happened that he hadn’t expected.
Twenty seconds ago, Leo was dead.
He felt the joy of having finally completed the mission, mixed with anger that the victim had not died at his hands. But instantly, in the midst of all these emotions, a new feeling washed over him—Leo hadn’t reached the underworld. He had stopped somewhere in between—a way station. This meant he hadn’t fully died.
This happens when a person can still be saved, when the heart can be made to beat again. Meanwhile, the soul heads to a way station, a place that is inaccessible to both higher and lower powers.
“Are we flying today or what?” The instructor’s nagging was becoming irritating.
Ari felt an urge to shoot this annoying idiot. He had brought a pistol with him, intending to deal with him in the air—when it would be necessary to change course and the instructor would start to object. But doing that on land was pointless. Besides, if Leo really died, an unnecessary casualty would heavily damage Ari’s already tarnished reputation.
So, he simply raised his index finger, signaling the instructor to wait.
“Are you praying or something?” the instructor asked, surprised, but fell silent.
It wouldn’t be long. Clinical death could turn into biological death in normal conditions in just 5 or 6 minutes. If that happened, Ari would just take off his helmet and shoot himself in the temple. He could do it in the air, but he didn’t particularly want to take off. He didn’t like the sky; it made him feel too close to the higher powers—his despised enemies. It had been established long ago that they supposedly owned the upper realms while people like him were relegated to the lower. Though this wasn’t true, the concepts had been ingrained in both the living and the dead for thousands of years.
No, he wouldn’t take off unless absolutely necessary; he would wait as long as it took. And for the instructor’s sake, it was best not to bother him during this time.
It felt like I had vomited up a liter of dirty water, at the very least. Someone rolled me onto my side to keep it from going back down.
“Breathe, you dumb idiot, breathe,” a familiar voice said.
I gasped for air, coughed, and breathed in again. Realizing where I was and who I was, I managed to turn over and get on all fours. Rion, soaked to the bone, was hunched over Ryan's lifeless body, performing chest compressions.
“I don’t even know which is worse,” he muttered. “Your damn plan…” He gave Ryan mouth-to-mouth. “…or its execution.”
Rion continued to pump hard on Ryan’s chest.
“How did you get us out?” I managed to say, struggling for breath.
“Come on, wake up!” He ignored my question, focusing on bringing Ryan back from the dead.
A crowd of onlookers had gathered around us, with some filming the scene on their phones. I could only helplessly watch Rion’s efforts, and my first thought was: Was he doing mouth-to-mouth on me too? After all, he was practically inhabiting the body of a dead man, which meant I was having the lips of a corpse that had been taken out of the morgue touching mine.
But that was the least of my worries, considering Ryan’s condition. His life directly impacted mine. I was more than certain that without his votes in the board of directors, I wouldn’t be getting in; I had made too many mistakes. Furthermore, if Rion couldn’t save him, I would be responsible for the death of an utterly innocent person.
No one had died because of me. I didn’t know how my kidnappers fared after I had cut my wrists at the age of six—they certainly deserved death—but innocents hadn’t perished because of me. I could live with the kiss of a corpse, but killing Ryan? That was something I didn’t even want to think about.
“Wake up!!!” Rion shouted, not stopping the compressions.
“Wake up,” I whispered to myself.
In that very moment, Ryan seemed to hear us and spat a stream of water in Rion’s face. Gasping for breath, he turned onto his stomach. The onlookers applauded loudly, as if they had just witnessed an exciting performance in a theater. I met Rion’s gaze and thanked him with a brief nod.
Ryan stopped sputtering water and began to breathe more or less normally. He turned to face us.
“You pulled me out,” he said in a weak tone. “Thank you… thank you.”
“It was him,” Rion said, pointing at me. “I just helped revive him.”
“Thank you,” Ryan kept repeating. “Thank you.”
“I have a ton of important things to do, so I’m off,” Rion suddenly cut in. “Take care.”
He quickly got up and headed toward one of the spectators. Ryan followed him with a confused glance before turning back to me. He didn’t see how, behind his back, Rion politely asked for the phone from the person filming everything, then seemingly deleted the video before returning it. The owner of the phone showed a grimace of anger as he tried to express his displeasure, grabbing Rion’s hand, but Rion made a threatening gesture with his fist, and the guy recoiled in fear.
Rion had done a great job—he hadn’t let the video get out. It wouldn’t be wise for the other board members to know too soon that I had saved their colleague. There were too many coincidences, and if they seriously started discussing my persona, they might just figure out that my encounters with each of them weren’t exactly random.
“You dove in after me,” Ryan said, as if just remembering where he might have seen my face before. “You unbuckled my seatbelt. I… I don’t even know how to thank you…”
“I could tell you how,” I thought.
“Well, at the very least, I expect a beer,” I replied.
Ryan laughed but then coughed heavily.
“Maybe we should call an ambulance?”
“No, I’m fine. What’s your name?”
“Leo Ruitis.”
“Ryan Woods,” he extended his hand, and I shook it.
We both got to our feet.
“I need to get to a meeting,” Ryan said, sounding bewildered.
“In that condition?” I was concerned.
“I’ll take a taxi, go home, and change.”
Stumbling like a drunk, he reached into the inner pocket of his soaked jacket, pulled out a crumpled business card, and handed it to me.
“Call me, Leo Ruitis, and we’ll have a proper drink.”
“I’ll be out of the country for a couple of days…” I had no intention of calling him, at least not before the vote.
“Call anytime,” he waved his hand, already turning his back to me and scanning for a taxi. “Anytime, Leo Ruitis!”
I watched him walk away unsteadily, anxious. It seemed he hadn’t recovered from the shock and wasn’t thinking clearly. I could only hope that when he fully came to his senses, my name wouldn’t slip his mind.
The scheme had turned out to be dangerous, foolish, and nearly fatal, but ultimately successful. If Ryan acted fairly with his votes, he could secure my victory.
My work here was done. There were two days left until the fateful day, which I planned to spend lounging on my private jet, watching movies. How to unseat CEO Rob would have to be thought over after I secured the title of “board member.”
For now, after a week of intense mental and physical activity, I certainly deserved a break.
***
Ari was seething with rage. He gripped the fighter jet's controls tightly, speeding down the runway and lifting off into the air. The son of a bitch had returned to this world in less than two minutes! It felt like he was mocking him—heading to a waystation just to gloat.
Now Leo would surely rush back to his plane, feeling safe—but not this time!
Fortunately, Ari was in the same country, so he wouldn’t have to cross into foreign airspace—something that would create a host of problems. Leo was about 4,500 kilometers away, and with a full tank, the jet could fly 5,500 kilometers. In 4-5 hours, Ari would catch up to his target. Maybe even sooner if his victim flew to meet him.
As soon as he reached altitude, Ari immediately changed his flight path. The voice of the instructor, whom he had nearly forgotten in his rage, made itself known.
“Where are you turning?!” the instructor shouted in his earpiece. “Did you forget where you were going?!”
Ari pulled out his gun, aimed it over his shoulder at the instructor, and without batting an eye, fired six shots. The bullets tore through his chest, and he slumped forward, held back by his seatbelt.
Ah, how nice it was to be in silence—Ari thought. No more annoying orders. Today was going to be successful for him. He had several combat missiles in his arsenal, but to take down Leo’s plane, just one would be enough. This time, nothing could stand in his way. And there was no way his victim would survive such an explosion.
Everything had to work out.
***
Once the plane took off, I called Ella, as I did after every job, to reassure her that I was alive and well. For the past three hours, I hadn’t taken my eyes off the TV screen, lounging on the couch—my rest was in full swing. I was watching a show called Supernatural, where two brothers fought against all sorts of hellish creatures. I took it much more seriously than any other fan of the genre, as much of the fantastical content had turned into reality for me. The thought lingered in my mind that if Ari possessed even half the power of the demons from the show, I would have been dead long ago.
Rion, as usual, sat in the chair, staring out the window. We rarely spoke while aimlessly flying through the sky. I would have liked to chat, but he didn’t seem interested in conversing. After binge-watching four episodes centered around God and the devil, I had an overwhelming urge to turn to Rion with new questions. Though the answers were predictable, it was worth a shot. I turned off the TV and sat up.
“Listen, you’ve met him, right?” I pointed upwards.
“Who?” Rion didn’t understand.
“Well… him,” I repeated my gesture. “What’s he like? Old, wise? With a long beard?”
Rion sighed in annoyance—my constant questions were clearly starting to irritate him.
“I’m forbidden to tell you about such things.”
Ah, the standard response. This was his answer to every question. “How is life in his world?”—I wasn’t supposed to know. “Why does he have a grudge against Ari?”—Not my concern. “What, why, and how?”—Not my business. You couldn’t find a more uncommunicative conversational partner!
“What are you allowed to talk about?” I asked.
“Even what you already know—you shouldn’t know. Just be thankful for that.”
“Shouldn’t, but I do,” I said, trying to be clever. “And they haven’t punished you for being up there again,” I pointed upward once more. “So why don’t you…”
“First of all,” Rion interrupted, “stop pointing up. There’s no one there.”
“Don’t you call them your higher powers?”
“That doesn’t mean we live above. That’s a myth people invented thousands of years ago. They gave everything names, and ours picked it up. In reality, we don’t jump on clouds, we don’t have wings, and there are no golden gates that let people into our world. There’s also no one underground. No boiling cauldrons, no horned demons. It’s all arranged differently…” Rion suddenly stumbled over his words when he realized he was getting carried away, so the end of his explanation reverted to the usual refrain, “…and you’re not allowed to know about that either. When you finish your journey in this world, then you’ll find out everything.”
This conversation followed the same pattern—by asking one thing, I received an answer to a completely different question that I hadn’t even asked or thought of, but which was quite interesting. Rion often did this.
“I hope my journey doesn’t end anytime soon,” I said, reclining lazily against the soft back of the couch.
Rion barely smiled, and then his expression abruptly changed. He was facing the tail of the plane and looked ahead with a mix of worry and fear, as if he were staring through the fuselage. Nothing good came from that.
“Don’t make that face; it’s terrifying,” I leaned forward.
“It’s Ari,” Rion said, to my horror. “He’s moving too fast. He’s right here, very close.”
“How is that possible?” I jumped up.
“Almost caught up with us.” Rion dashed to my side and pressed his forehead against the window. I did the same on the other side.
In the distance, behind the tail of the plane, I spotted a tiny fighter jet rapidly closing the distance between us.
“Oh my God…” I muttered. “It can’t be…”
Rion turned to me, and everything inside me flipped. In his eyes, I saw despair, resignation, and guilt. It was as if he was silently apologizing for not being able to protect me.
Our plane couldn’t outrun the fighter jet; we were defenseless and vulnerable. Even if I managed to snap out of my stupor, run to the parachute, open the door, and jump out of the plane—I wouldn’t make it. I was on Ari’s personal radar, and this time he wouldn’t let me escape. With ten kilometers to the ground, the fall would take a while, and in that time, he could splatter me across the jet’s windshield ten times over or shred me with a heavy caliber. No matter how I looked at it, a horrible death awaited me.
He had won.
I looked into Rion's eyes, expecting at any moment for that damned bastard to take us down. But suddenly something changed in his gaze. Despair vanished in an instant, replaced by something encouraging, as if an idea was slowly forming in his mind on how to get us out of this. Was there even the slightest chance?
Rion suddenly glanced out the window.
“He’s not alone.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, not knowing if that was good or bad.
“Someone else is with him. He’s not alone!”
In Rion’s voice, there was a hint of a solution to our troubles, but I could barely grasp it. The door to our little room suddenly swung open, and one of the bodyguards appeared in the doorway.
“Leo, there’s a fighter jet trailing us. Should we be worried?”
Before I could even open my mouth, Rion dashed toward the bodyguard, reached into his holster under his jacket, pulled out a gun, and shot himself in the head. Blood sprayed across the face of the stunned guard.
“WHAT THE HELL?!” he screamed. “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!”
The body that Rion had temporarily occupied fell to the floor. While other bodyguards rushed into the room at the sound of the shot, and the bewildered witness to the suicide shouted, “What the hell did he shoot himself for?!” and “What’s happening here?!”, I was already pressing my face against the window.
With my heart frozen, I searched for the fighter jet, bewildered by how Rion could interfere with it. What could he possibly do? Why did he knock himself out of his body?
Certainly not to escape.
Could it be that this time, I would get lucky?
***
The shot-down second pilot of the fighter jet, hanging in his seatbelt, gasped for breath and opened his eyes. His irises were filled with a blue glow, shining through the glass of his helmet.
Rion quickly assessed the situation—he was behind Ari, slightly elevated. To reach him, he needed to squeeze through the narrow space between the front seat and the glass canopy covering the cockpit. For this task, the helmet on his head was clearly unnecessary, and the seatbelts even more so.
Ari immediately sensed a powerful aura behind him and recognized its owner. A thought flashed through his mind: “How could I not have calculated this possibility before?” but it was too late.
There was only a small distance left to successfully complete his mission—he had already aligned the fighter with the tail of the plane flying ahead and had it in his sights. All that remained was to lift the safety cover, press the button—and goodbye Leo, the headache of Ari.
But Rion acted faster than Ari could perform those simple two actions. With a few quick movements, he unbuckled the seatbelts, removed his helmet, and immediately dove toward the front seat. The first powerful blow struck Ari right in the back of the head. Rion grabbed him by the helmet and began jerking him in all directions, hitting him against the seat and the side window.
"You filthy bastard!" Rion yelled angrily. "When are you going to die!?"
The tightness of the space prevented him from going all out. He couldn’t swing for a hit or deliver a proper blow. Ari, making futile attempts to free himself from the grip, suddenly remembered that he might have a way to help himself. He reached under his jacket, pulled out his pistol, and aimed it over his shoulder.
Rion suddenly pushed off with his legs and wedged half of his body deep into the front part of the cockpit. He managed to grab Ari's gun hand and pull it aside. Deafening gunshots rang out, and multiple holes appeared in the canopy glass. No matter how Ari tried to shoot his enemy, all the bullets went wide.
Finally, the ammo ran out. Rion, with a series of punches, pounded Ari in the helmet, shattering the glass. Each of his movements was accompanied by malicious curses, growls, and spittle flying. He hung over Ari with his whole body, giving him no chance for a counterattack.
Somehow covering himself with his hands from the blows, Ari suddenly grabbed Rion by the collar and yanked him forward. They found themselves in a bizarre version of a Kama Sutra pose, where Rion's head was at Ari's groin level, and vice versa. The position didn’t take long to settle. With no other options for attack, they simultaneously began to punch and elbow each other between the legs.
Despite the origin of Ari's arrival, he had never felt such HELLISH pain. The same went for his opponent. They exchanged painful blows to the groin, screamed loudly, but didn’t stop for a second.
Unexpectedly for himself, Rion intercepted Ari's punch, squeezed his hand with his own, and tried to regain his former position, to be on top again, but Ari wouldn’t allow it. He quickly freed himself from the grip and clamped Rion’s head with his knees. While Rion tried to pry himself free, Ari punched him in the ribs with both hands.
Meanwhile, the fighter began a rapid descent—the control stick was managed by Rion’s back. The altitude indicator was quickly falling, and the plane was spinning around its axis. Ari furiously beat his enemy, pressing his knees harder against Rion’s head, hoping to crush his skull.
Rion was stuck—he couldn’t move, couldn’t resist the blows, couldn’t do anything. Sharp pain pierced his body; several broken ribs were already making it hard to breathe. He was about to leave the vessel, and then Leo would be a corpse.
Gritting his teeth and enduring blow after blow, he suddenly lifted his gaze upward and stared at two orange handles. Those were the only things that could thwart Ari and save Leo! He knew what those handles were for, could reach them, could determine the outcome of this fight. They were very close.
Rion abandoned his attempts to free himself from Ari's trap, grabbed the handles with both hands, and yanked them upwards.
The glass canopy covering the pilot's cockpit was torn off with a whistle and swept away by the wind. Smoke billowed from under Ari, the ejection seat mechanism activated, and the seat, along with both pilots, shot out of the plane like a rocket.
“NO!” Ari screamed.
His seat flipped in the air, and before his eyes, the sky and the ground flickered. Rion held on with all his strength, but then the parachute deployed, the seat jerked sharply, and it separated from the pilot. Due to the sudden deceleration, Rion was thrown off Ari, and only at the last moment did he manage to grab his ankle.
Neither of them aimed to land alive. Rion grabbed his enemy's leg with a single thought—to look him in the eye, smile mockingly, and let go. Which he did.
He was lucky to emerge victorious from this dangerous adventure; he had succeeded—he had once again prevented Leo's death! But nothing pleased him more than the fact that he deprived his principled enemy of the chance to seize what he desired.
Ari spitefully watched as Rion let go of his leg and, with a smug grin, gave him the middle finger as he fell to the ground. He saw the fighter jet shrinking in size as it tumbled through the air.
He could hardly believe what had happened.
How could he have failed the mission he had prepared for three whole days? This was unacceptable—his colleagues would soon start laughing at him. Perhaps he should radically change his tactics? After all, it wasn’t Leo who was the cause of all his troubles—it was Rion. Because of his vindictiveness, because of what happened between them thousands of years ago.
How could he make the “guardian” step aside voluntarily? Was it even possible?
It was possible.
They had a shared past, and Ari knew which buttons to push. Which wounds to dig into. What Rion would be willing to trade for his protection over Leo. There was always something, the main thing was how to present it correctly. And Ari was ready to set aside his pride for the long-awaited success.
He looked up at the sky—somewhere out there, his victim was rejoicing, having once again avoided death. But for how long?
It was time to prepare for the next move, and for that, he needed to leave the vessel. It was going to take too long to reach the ground, so Ari unbuckled himself from the parachute and accelerated the process.
***
I continued to stare out the window long after the fighter jet began to fall, spinning like a top. My heart only began to ease about twenty minutes later when I realized that Rion had surely managed it, and I would live to see another day. This meant that tomorrow I would need to fly to Mexico, where he was supposed to find a new vessel and return to me on board.
I sat down at the table and poured myself a cognac—only a madman wouldn’t drink after a day like this. It was frightening to imagine what Ari would pull next, how far he was now capable of going if he hijacked military combat equipment. That was why he had been absent for so long—he was preparing for his final battle. But he lost again.
I didn’t really want to relax now. It would be wise to seriously consider my escape routes after the voting. If I wasn’t mistaken—and I wasn’t mistaken—I would have to spend quite a bit of time on land on voting day. Enough time for Ari to come up with a plan to reach me and a way to kill me.