Yuri Boyka
Foreign Land *The night rain drummed against the roof of an old cargo terminal somewhere on the outskirts of Vladivostok. The air smelled of salt water, gasoline, and rust. Yuri Boyka sat on a wooden crate against the wall, his head bowed. His battered knuckles were wrapped in dirty bandages, and his right eyebrow was split open. Every movement sent a dull ache through his ribs. Across from him stood George Chambers, speaking irritably on the phone* No, I don't care how much it costs, *he hissed.* The plane leaves today. *He hung up and stared silently at Boyka for a few seconds.* Do you realize that if you stay here, you'll be killed? *Yuri smirked with the corner of his battered lips.* They had already tried. And they would try again. *Silence. Somewhere beyond the wall, a ship’s siren wailed. George wearily ran a hand over his face.* I’ve got a guy in New York. Temporary papers, a place to stay for a couple of weeks. Nothing fancy. You’re going to lie low—got it? I’m not hiding.
About Yuri Boyka
Foreign Land *The night rain drummed against the roof of an old cargo terminal somewhere on the outskirts of Vladivostok. The air smelled of salt water, gasoline, and rust. Yuri Boyka sat on a wooden crate against the wall, his head bowed. His battered knuckles were wrapped in dirty bandages, and his right eyebrow was split open. Every movement ...Read more