✈️ Barbados. Night

A low hum. I tilt my head to the sky. Military helicopters above. The blades slice the air like a warning: You’re not welcome here. Best be on your way.
Old Bell UH-1 Hueys and a pair of Sikorsky Black Hawks. They don’t keep birds like that for show — it’s either training or an intercept. I know their voices: one crawls slow, patrol duty; the other can drop men on a point in minutes.

My mind maps it out on instinct — angle of approach, number of aircraft, their radius. I count five, maybe six in the air. Enough to lock down the whole island.

Tactically — they weren’t just passing by. The military has a target. The only question is whether that target is us.

— What are the military doing here? — the Guard. Also our Aristocrat.
— We shouldn’t stick around, — the Adventurer.
— Agreed. The indicators and the news match, — the Chess Player.
— Fine. Fast in, fast out, and home, — me.

Deal closed. Time to go.

We spill out of the bar — tired, satisfied.

First out is the Aristocrat. He stretches, drinking in the air. White suit straight as a blade, hat tipped just so, cane tapping time. He looks like the bar was a stage and he played it without missing a note.
A step behind — He. White shirt open at the throat, black trousers cuffed clean. A studied nonchalance that sharpens the whole look. The jacket — lead-heavy inside the bar, suddenly light outside — hangs from one finger like it weighs nothing.
We move as one: his hand at my waist; the other pulling me in — sometimes tucked to his side, sometimes wrapped so tight my heels almost lose the beat.
He skims my neck with a quick kiss, threads his fingers through my hair, slow and searching, as if he’s checking: You here? The real you? Right next to me? Gentle, almost tentative. And still my body flashes — tiny electric bites of memory — throwing me straight into what usually comes next: when he lets go. When he growls. When his hands lock in so hard a sound tears out of me before I can help it. He’s hungry — and I feel it under his softness.

The girls — bold dresses, short skirts — tired but still glowing. Hair a little mussed, lips plush from rum, heels singing on the asphalt. For Barbados we’re too bright: too expensive, too cinematic, like we stepped in from a different reality.
The man in white adjusts his jacket, grimaces:
— That chair killed my backside.
— Backside killed! — Roman crows, copying him, and the crew breaks up laughing.
We stop on an empty street. The Diplomat flicks ash from his sleeve and sighs:
— Finally, a proper charter.
The air clings to the skin — salt and overripe fruit. The road is empty, the asphalt glossy with heat.
— Damn… — He.
— What is it? — me.

He dips to kiss my forehead. Warm, brief. His brows knit; his gaze drops to the ground. Fingers slide up and down my brow, pressing fatigue away. A nervous, spent gesture. The deal wrung him dry, and now with flights cancelled he’s running the tree in his head, stepping through options.
— Charter, commercial… all flights are cancelled, — the Diplomat.
Cigarette clenched, smoke hanging still.
— Mom, why is Uncle Josh allowed to smoke but I’m not? — Roman leans forward, solemn.
The white suit smirks:
— Because then you’ll get bugs living inside you.
— Aaaah! — Roman squeals and the Guard keeps piling on about the bugs.
The Adventurer snorts into her hand.

I watch Him. I’m calm; he’s tight. Muscles stone, hands braced at his hips, jaw locked. On his face: I let her down.
We trade a look. Everyone knows: for him this isn’t logistics. It’s a trigger. His sore spot.
I’m not enough for her.
Only he’s wrong.
If he could see himself through my eyes… Even in the tight jaw and the twitchy moves — he’s devastating. There’s a force in him he can’t see.

— Three o’clock, left, — murmurs the one who counts first.
— Ahem. Folks, you need to leave.
An old man is parked outside the bar. Rutted skin, bad acne scars healed crooked. Drooping cheeks, heavy brows. Cigar off to one side, smoke looping lazy. Eyes cold, sticky, appraising — like he’s pricing stock, not people.

Instinct drops Roman behind my hip, my hand clamping him to my thigh, shielding him.
— Don’t move, — a command my son knows cold. Danger.
The air snaps. Thickens. Like the tropics have crawled straight into our lungs and press from inside. The night swells with fear, heavy and viscous.
Kids feel it. He’s still little, but children have something stronger than logic — an animal sensor. The knowledge jumps to him like a live wire.
He can’t name it, but he reads the weather: something’s coming, and it’s bad. A tremor lifts inside him — quiet, unresolved, like the sea before a storm.
I used to scold him — too young, you can’t just tag along with me, with Him, with the crew whenever you want. I scolded, punished, tried to pen him in.
He always found his way onboard. At first hiding — crates, blankets. Later openly, eyes bright: I’m going anyway.
In the end I gave up and made peace with it. Because wasn’t I the one who raised him like this? Taught him to use his own head instead of obeying blindly? Drilled in: If you’re sure — hold your ground. They’ll move first.
Now he looks at me with that stubborn gaze — too serious for his age, like a grown man lives behind his eyes already. Saying without words: You built me like this. You gave me this right.

I’m mad — and under it a spark of pride catches, hot and sharp. That’s my boy. Stubborn. Heir to my fire.

Two of the old man’s guys loiter in the shadows. Sweat-stained tees, tired track pants, flip-flops dusted pale. The humidity has soaked everything; they smell of rank sweat and cheap tobacco. One rubs the back of his head, the other grips an empty rum bottle like a weapon.
A pit bull strains against a chain. Coat slick with damp, paws sliding in the mud. The chain clinks — each lunge ringing metal through the dark.
Quick count: two inside the bar, the old man out front, two in the shadows, plus the dog. Minimum five. Guns could be inside. Old building, sketchy lights. If this breaks — there are only two exits and they hold both.
We take it in without speaking. I press my lips thin. Fire-girl nods. The white suit squints. Quick glances — board set.
— I don’t like him, — the Chess Player tucks in tight.
— Follow the path the old man took, — He.
A shot rips the night.
— Son of a—! — He.
Everyone jolts. One of our guys trips, swearing; the girls spit good strong language; the roar’s so loud my ears ring. Roman bursts out laughing.
— Stubborn little devil, — I breathe through the adrenaline. — Of course he had to come with me.
The bar door bangs. The owner stumbles out, hands raised, rattling away in the local tongue. The old man squints, distrustful. A phone pings.
— I’ll fire again. Get to the plane. Now!
The whole tableau goes absurd: snow-white suit, crisp as a commercial, hat like in a movie, manicure fresh, ring flashing — and in those pampered hands a heavy gun, held like a bouquet.
He lifts it a little too far out, worried about the fabric. Squeezes the trigger.
Bang.
A spear of flame kicks straight up — not at the threat, but into the bar roof. Crash, sparks, splintering boards. The white suit staggers back with the recoil, loses his footing, and drops flat like a tragic opera diva.
I fold in half. Laughter hits so hard my eyes sting. My stomach knots. I can’t even climb into the plane — I hang off the door, choking on it.
— God, — I rasp, — he’s going to bury himself with that thing!
The girls are gone too: one drumming her knee with a fist, the other hiding her mouth while her shoulders shake. He tries to keep a straight face, rolls his eyes — but the corners of his mouth twitch. Roman shrieks, bang-bang! hands showing how the diva flew backwards.
It’s a farce on the lip of disaster: roof punched through, bar smoking, the white suit brandishing like a cartoon villain. Which somehow makes it funnier — and buys us the window to bolt.
He scoops Roman up. His eyes are lit — strung tight, a little drunk, stupidly sexy in this state like in any other. Every move clean, precise. My heart punches so hard the world shivers.
A beat — and we’re in the plane. One last shot — the old man catches on, his guys firing wild, the pit bull shredding the chain. I start the engine.
He holds Roman and laces his fingers into mine.
A micro-gesture.
His look says it without sound: — Always.
Tears come whether I like it or not.
— I love you too.
He smirks:
— Ha, baby… I know.
— Hey, you two! Planning to die here or what? — the Adventurer. Already digging into her phone — alerts, markets open.
I exhale.
— Who is this woman — checking stocks under gunfire…
Key turns, levers forward. The engine coughs, spits.
— Piece of junk.
It dies. A thousand thoughts.
Come on, Nazokat. Come on.
My coach’s voice flashes up: “Machines like a gentle hand. You just want to break everything around you.”
I smile through tears. Cheeks wet.
And I pray — without knowing I’m praying.
My hands repeat an old pattern — muscle memory rising.
I’m eight again. Winter. Dad outside in the snowdrifts. We’re in the old Zhiguli. Cold straight to the bone, windows furred with frost. I lay my palm on the glove box, shut my eyes:
— I believe in you, little car. I do. Please start. I know you can.
I whisper the same words now, silent but the same. My palm is on the controls, the engine is different, my life is different — but the prayer is unchanged: I believe. Come on. You can do this.
And — a jolt.
The little bird lifts.
Below — the old man and his crew. The chain clatters, the dog thrashes, shots go nowhere, and we’re already higher, already gone.
— Immediate descent. You are crossing international waters! — the radio rasps. Military. Their voice cuts — but can’t reach.
Twenty minutes later we touch down.
The girls drop to their knees and kiss the tarmac like it’s holy ground. The white suit is already on the phone — brisk, unbothered, as if this was a calendar glitch. Who to grease, what to block — he’s on it.
Roman sleeps on He’s chest. Warm, even breaths, like hell never happened.
No need to wait for soldiers.
Shouts in the local tongue, clipped orders, hard gestures. We’re herded, shoulders shoved, but the line isn’t crossed.
He holds Roman so tight the soldiers step back on their own. Our passports hang like shields on our chests, bright enough to draw a boundary in the air.
— Mother— — I spit, seething. — Bastards. I look at Him , if they try to split us — you do not give up Roman. No matter what.
— Copy.

“Copy” — our code word.
He knows the edge. He feels there’s a darkness he isn’t allowed into. Moments where my command is not up for debate. He’s smart and strong — and he understands it’s not a roleplay. It’s a red code.

He sees something switch in his woman. The shadow steps forward. The girl is covered. The beast has the reins. Me isn’t here right now.
And his eyes change. Ice and fire. A readiness to tear apart anyone who reaches for the boy.

He’s moved by it. By my trust. By the fact I put the child into his arms. He knows exactly what that means to me. He knows the price of that trust.
A short nod. Order received.
Verdict: a day in the holding pen.

A fog of voices, iron doors slamming, the smell of damp and hot metal. We sit tight, shoulder to shoulder, but together.
When they finally let us go…
Soaked, spent, but alive.
We knock fists:
— We made it.
Roman is wiped, and happy.

— Guys, can you believe it, the Ritz is full, — the Aristocrat — scuffed up, hoarse, and still very much an Aristocrat. Hat knocked askew, suit stained, tone unchanged, like nothing happened.
— Oh my God… that’s your concern? — me.

And then we break. Laughter takes us clean apart — bright, real, unstoppable. It floods the veins, folds us in two; we clutch our sides and can’t stop.
It isn’t just laughter. It’s a purge. A breath after a night with death at our shoulder. It’s hysteria braided with relief. Tears, stabbing stitches in our ribs.
We’re not laughing because it’s funny.
We’re laughing because we’re alive.
Because we got away with it.
Because at the edge of chaos the only thing left to do is laugh till you can’t breathe.
And in that laughter is everything at once: the exhaustion, the gratitude, the animal fear, the joy. Laughter as prayer. Laughter as a scream. Laughter as proof: we’re still here. And we’re not going anywhere.