Page 63 of Ford

“It’s for Gunnar,” she said, touching her hand to the jersey.

Gunnar. “He still playing baseball?”

She glanced up at him, smiling, and for a second he was sitting in the stands with her that day when he’d stuck around for Gunnar’s game. The first time he realized how much she’d affected his life.

The first time he’d panicked about losing her.

No, it wasn’t a good idea to bring his girlfriend on this trip, not at all.

Ham came over and handed them their tickets. “We got the last private compartment.”

Scarlett swung her pack off her shoulder and shoved the ticket into a side pocket. Put the pack on the floor and picked up the jersey. “I need to get some hryvnia.”

“I got some,” Ham said and dug into his pocket. He handed the male vendor a couple silver coins, the equivalent of a few dollars, and the man folded up the jersey and slipped it into a plastic bag.

“Dyakuyu,” Scarlett said.

“You know Ukrainian?” Ham asked.

“No. I memorized a few words I downloaded off the internet. When I was a kid, I helped my mother memorize lines—I got pretty good at committing a lot to memory, fast.” She turned to reach for her bag. “Oh no.”

She glanced up and Ford saw the words on her face even before she said them.

Looked past her. Sure enough, a teenager had his hands on her backpack, carrying it surreptitiously as if the bag belonged to him.

“Hey!” Ford said and shot off after the kid.

Scarlett was right behind him, shouting.

The kid took off, weaving through the crowd, pushing people aside. People turned at Ford’s shouts, but no one stepped in to stop the kid. He wore a fraying red sweater, a pair of jeans, and probably a pair of Nike Air Jordans because he ran like he might be on fire.

Or, of course, being chased.

The kid rounded the end of the corridor, and Ford kicked it up.

Scarlett was shouting not far behind. “Don’t let him get away!”

Right. Because her passport and her ticket were in that bag and—

Ford turned the corner and blasted into a crowd of travelers clogging to get into the metro.

Their thief pushed in next to a turnstile and went through with a departing passenger.

Ford didn’t have time to buy a metro ticket. He barreled up next to a young man, pushing through behind him.

“Sorry,” he said, wishing he’d learned a bit of Ukrainian.

Red Sweater got on an escalator going down, and Ford sprinted for it. It was too narrow to push past people, but he did anyway, getting jostled against the rail. Below him, the skinny kid was having more luck.

“I’ll catch him!”

He glanced over and spotted Scarlett on the parallel escalator, going down, more agile without her pack, not caring who might get a cheap feel as she pushed her way through the crowd. “He’s not getting on that metro train!”

Or the one now shooting through the station, filling the arched corridor with thunder. The low-hanging chandeliers cast eerie shadows as they descended, and Ford fought to adjust his eyes. He and Scarlett hit the platform, and he pushed against the slow-moving traffic—hello, weren’t these people trying to get on that train?

There. Red Sweater, at the end of the platform.

Scarlett must have seen him, too, because she took off through the crowd.