Chapter 17

One of the Russians yells at Wave.

I watch Wave lower his right arm. He reaches into the breast area of his trench coat and pulls out a silver canister, which looks similar to an alcoholic’s flask.

One of the Russians yells something at him and lowers his gun, aiming it at Wave’s feet. A warning shot is fired but Wave doesn’t move. It’s like he’s used to this behavior, unaffected.

Wave tosses the flask forward, which almost lands in a puddle. The metal object tinks off the ground, bounces once. It lands approximately five feet in front of the Russians.

As one Russian rushes to get the flask, the other one keeps Wave in the crosshairs of his pistol. He yells something and gestures with his gun at Wave.

Lightning flashes overhead, illuminating the night; the biggest mistake of the evening. It’s the first yellow-white streak of the April evening, and it discloses my whereabouts.