it seemed little more than the silhouette of a hang glider hovering in the air, a slash of red against the
purple horizon. Then a second figure appeared, then a third, until a swarm surrounded the helicopter,
their red wings beating in the air, their eyes fixed as they circled inward.
“You didn’t mention that St. Ivan Island is being guarded by Gibborim,” Vera said, glancing at
Azov.
“It isn’t—they must have followed our jeep from Sozopol,” Sveti said, steering the helicopter
inland as one of the creatures swung against the windscreen, its red wing brushing the plastic and
leaving a streak of oil behind.
“We can’t fight them up here,” Azov said under his breath. “We’ll have to outrun them. We’ll have
help on the ground if we can just make it to the airport.”
“Hold on,” Sveti said, as she manipulated the stick, swerving the helicopter.
It swayed and jerked, dipping like a ship on choppy water, but the creatures stayed with them.
Suddenly the craft faltered and tipped, throwing Vera forward against her shoulder straps. She looked
out the window and saw that two Gibborim had attached themselves to the runners. With their wings
open, they were dragging the helicopter down toward the rocky shore.
Sveti bit her lip and bore onto the controls. It wasn’t until they approached the electrical wires and
Sveti was angling the runners toward a bank of transmission towers that Vera realized their pilot
intended to force the creatures off by scraping the bottom. Sveti feinted right, then left, and then
lowered the chopper down. The Gibborim hit the wires, their wings tangling as the helicopter
ascended once more, sweeping back out over the bay.
Within minutes the shipping yard at Burgas came into view. Massive pyramids of salt grew along
the shore, white and rocky. Sveti steered inland again toward the airport, stationed just miles from the
water. The runway stretched into the distance, and the Cessna piper sat abandoned on the tracks like a
metallic insect anticipating flight.
As Sveti moved down lightly onto the tarmac, they were approached by a group of uniformed men
who seemed almost bored as they escorted the trio out of the craft, around passport control, through
the exit of the airport. Stepping out once again into the cool night, Vera found the sky had gone inky
blue: The runway beyond the chain-link fence was shrouded in shadow. She scanned the landing
field, looking for Gibborim.
A man in jeans and a black T-shirt strolled by, and Vera felt something cold and metallic thrust into
her hand—a set of keys strung onto a leather strap. The agent—she knew that the man could only have
been sent by Bruno—gestured to a Range Rover and, without a word, kept walking.
Azov gave Vera a look of surprise. He was clearly not used to having equipment and personnel
show up without a word. Vera hadn’t experienced such assistance either—she had never been out in
the field before—but she knew that Bruno would take care of them. She gripped the keys, deciding
that she was going to make the most of everything they gave her, use every resource and every bit of
her talent to get to Dr. Valko.
She climbed into the driver’s seat without a word. Azov climbed in beside her, leaving Sveti to
take the backseat. The jeep was a new stick shift, with four-wheel drive and less than a thousand
kilometers recorded on the dial. The leather steering wheel was cold from the night air. A manila
envelope sat on the dash. Vera tossed it to Azov, threw the car into gear, and sped away from the
airport.
Azov unzipped his backpack and pulled out a stack of plastic cups and a bottle of liquor. “Rakia,”
Azov said, as he raised the bottle, offering it to Vera.
She accepted and took a long drink. It wasn’t as potent as vodka and not nearly as smooth, but she
relished the feeling it produced in her body, a slow declenching of her muscles, a gradual loosening
of her mind as she handed the bottle back to Sveti.
Azov dug in his backpack again and pulled out a map outlining the route from the Black Sea to the
mountains, now obscured by nightfall. “Dr. Valko lives in Smolyan, which is roughly a five-hour
drive from here, near the village of Trigrad. These roads are far from ideal, but at least we’re not
going to meet Gibborim on the way.”
Azov was right about the Gibborim—they attacked only while in flight, fixing their victims midair
—but Vera also knew that if Bulgaria was infested with those kinds of creatures, there would surely
be others.
As she turned onto the highway, following Azov’s directions, she tried to calculate when they
would get to Dr. Valko. According to the clock on the dashboard, it was just after 9:00 P.M. If they