Chapter 103
2761words
I've seen this before. This exact scene. Asher lying in a pool of his own blood, dying right in front of my eyes. The last time it was just a nightmare.
This is real.
'Asher! Asher, no! Asher! Get up!" I cry.
Yannick keeps his hold on me as I struggle to escape. He ignores how I fight, turning around to grin wolfishly at Roman. 'Molodets, son! You got him!"
It clicks with me then—I understand what's happened. No longer struggling, I instead turn, staring in disbelief at Roman. His face is pale as old milk. He's gripping a pistol that looks massive in his tiny hands.
'Roman?" I whisper.
He sniffles, starting to shake, the tremors coming faster and more violent by the second. 'I … I …" he stammers.
Beaming with sadistic delight, Yannick turns again so he can see Asher. 'You should have fired when you had the chance, Asher. I guess you don't have the courage of a ten-year-old. Or maybe you're just weak. Did Camila's kindness soften your backbone? Hm?" He cups his ear. 'No response?"
Asher lies in the snow. He doesn't budge. Clutching my mouth in horror, I throttle down the bloodcurdling scream that wants to break free. I'm scared that if I start, I'll never stop. Oh God, Asher ...
'I didn't mean to," Roman whispers. His voice is fragile, on the edge of panic. 'I thought …" He drops the gun, gawking at it like it's turned into something else. It might as well be a king cobra for how he looks ready to flee. 'It was real. It wasn't supposed to be real."
'Roman?" my mother asks, as aghast as he is.
He rolls his eyes toward her. He hasn't blinked in far too long. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
'It's okay, it's okay," Mom whispers to him. She cradles the boy, trying to stabilize him as his shaking grows worse.
'Stop crying," Yannick snarls. 'You should be proud of what you've done." The sirens that split the air make him freeze; he stands tall, staring at the sky, then back toward the road. 'We need to move. Everyone get in the car. Now."
I keep waiting for Asher to get up. For Mila and his men to burst from the bushes, rushing to his aid. Asher's blood stains the snow all around him. But nothing happens.
This is my fault.
I did this.
'I said let's go!" Yannick snags me by my elbow, forcing me up into the driveway. There's a black Mercedes parked with only a light layer of snow on top. He shoves me into the back, then shouts for my mother and Roman. Mom shuttles the boy into the back seat, holding him in her lap. He's still crying.
Yannick hurriedly swipes snow off the windshield before jumping into the driver's seat. We're not even buckled in when he starts the car. I'm thrown back from the force. He's speeding, rushing to escape the area before the cops or Asher's men close in on us.
Roman's sobs fill the vehicle.
'Shut up!" Yannick roars. 'Stop crying! You have no reason to cry!"
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Roman sobs. Snot pours from his nose, his whole face cherry-red. We're free of the suburb, and the car spins on the black ice. It's a miracle we don't fishtail into a tree. Once we reach drier, clearer roads, Yannick speeds up. The tires scream, but Roman's crying is loudest of all.
The brakes squeal sharply as Yannick turns us around a corner into an alley. The car jostles to an abrupt halt, sending my mom and Roman falling to the floor.
'Mom!" I gasp.
Yannick leans into the back seat and slaps Roman clear across the face before wrenching him from my mother's arms.
Roman stops crying, the utter shock of the assault robbing him of his voice.
'No son of mine will be a crying suka! What we did back there, what you did, was vengeance! Hold your head up high with pride!"
'Leave him alone!" I snap, pulling Roman back to me. 'He's not heartless like you!"
A terrible darkness swirls in Yannick's pupils. He considers me with disdain, saying nothing for a full minute. The only sounds are the faraway sirens and Roman's heavy breathing.
'If you think you can protect him from his own destiny … or from me … you have no idea how wrong you are."
Roman clutches me like I'm the only safe thing in the world. Tears run down to my chin. I resist the urge to rub them away.
'You're a pathetic man who makes a boy do his dirty work."
Yannick narrows his eyes curiously. 'Are you crying because Asher is dead?"
'He isn't dead!" I yell defiantly, my voice going hoarse. Mom watches me with abject fear written on her tired face. She's not afraid for herself … She's afraid for me.
Yannick's sneer grows like a weed. It's a twisted shape from ear to ear that only stops when it can grow no bigger, and I'm surprised I don't see fangs or a forked tongue when he speaks.
'He is dead. But don't worry, you'll see him again."
My pulse quickens. Roman stirs in my arms, his wet cheek turning into my body. He's seeking comfort, and I wish I had some to give. 'What?" I ask worriedly.
I was wrong. His sneer can get bigger. 'Haven't you figured it out by now?"
That's when I understand.
He's going to kill me.
39
ASHER
It's cold.
A thousand hands crush my skull, pressing in, trying to crack my bones and pierce my brain. They're holding down my shoulders... my arms, my calves. I feel like I weigh a thousand pounds, I can't move no matter how hard I try, and hands shove me downward like they're preventing me from springing straight into the sky.
Through it all comes the pain.
It slashes at my skin in precise strokes, leaving me stripped and exposed. Every nerve is on fire. If this is dying, I wish it will come to an end soon. I'm craving the kind release of death so much that I've stopped thinking about how I got here.
Through a fog, I hear my name.
Someone is shouting it. Over and over and over.
Sharp cracks, like wet wood in a fire, explode near my ear. Slowly the weight lifts off of me. Numbness fades enough for me to open my eyes. I'm not on fire—the burning comes from the cold of the snow I'm lying in. My cheek is buried in it. When I breathe, slush floods my mouth and nose, forcing me to cough in pain.
The haunting cry of my name lingers in my ears. Camila? It must be her. It has to be.
Thinking of her terrified face forces me back to this painful existence. Clarity returns, and with it, come brighter bursts of pain. I look around. In front of me is a dark shape. It's blurry until I squint harder, making myself focus.
A face.
A corpse.
Kostya?
Inhaling in shock, I stare at the wide-eyed, blank expression frozen on my brigadier's face. His waxen face is dull in the dim light of the street lamp. Red lights flicker off of it. They mimic the blood surrounding him in the snow.
How did this happen? And then I remember. Roman, his mouth wide with disbelief and fear... the clap of thunder as he pulled the trigger… And then I fell, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as Yannick fled with Camila and the rest.
What happened while I was unconscious? How did Kostya get here, and how did he die?
"Pick him up, we have to move!" a gruff voice demands. Multiple figures hoist me off the ground. I cry out from the unprecedented flares of agony. Each sway of my body tear at the bullet wound, and sends fresh stinging pain searing through my body.
"Get him on the stretcher, and let's go!" another voice shouts.
"Who? What?" I groan, trying to understand the chaos. I'm lifted onto something firm, laid flat, and strapped down. I can barely move before but now I'm restrained. The metallic tang of panic fills my mouth.
"Put me down, stop," I gasp.
"Relax." A gloved hand pats my arm. "We're here to help."
Twisting my neck I squint into the flashing red lights. They belong to an ambulance. Paramedics. They must have heard Roman's gunshot and come to check it out. Against all odds, I'm condemned to live.
They lift the gurney; I see Kostya splayed in the snow like a rag doll. Bitter shame swells in me, muting my pain. "Wait! Don't leave him here!"
"He's dead," one of the men holding me says. It's delivered as a simple fact.
I can't accept that Kostya, who risked his own life for mine, could be forgotten in an abandoned suburb like this. It's wrong—he deserves better.
The gurney jolts roughly, blinding me with pain. My view of the red lights and dark sky shifts, becoming the inside of the ambulance. It's crowded, multiple faces swaying close to mine. Some avoid meeting my eye. One of them, a gaunt man with a full mouth and ear-gauges, is strangely familiar.
He catches me staring—looks at me, then away, quick as a blink.
Do I know him?
"Hurry up," someone shouts, banging on the divider between the rear of the ambulance and the driver's section. "We can't waste time. He'll die before he's supposed to."
Something's not right.
Focusing on the man from earlier, I dig through my memory, trying to remember where I've seen him. One of the others is fumbling with an oxygen mask. He pokes a button, sets it off, scrambles to shut it down as the others laugh mockingly.
Sharp fingernails creep up my spine. The ear-gauge man glances at me again—and suddenly I remember. I've met him before, long ago, when I was still Yannick's brigadier.
Shit.
My pulse speeds up; I tense on the stretcher, curling my hands into fists. These aren't paramedics! They're Yannick's men! Rocking side to side I struggle to break free of my bonds. Everyone notices what I'm doing, two of them launching forward to hold me down.
"Get away from me!" I wheeze. Moving is making the bullet wound stretch; warm blood gushes through my shirt.
"Hold him still!" Hands seek purchase on my shoulders. Another pair grips my knees. I'm weighted down as heavily as when I was fading into unconsciousness in the snow. I can't break away, but I'm sure as hell going to try.
Gritting my teeth, I flex my biceps, shifting my weight from the right to my left. The men loosen their hold on me; I rock again, the other way. The gurney crests upward as it sways. Yannick's men gawk with rising dismay. Their worry gives me strength. If I can just tip over, the restraints might snap!
A sharp prick in my inner arm startles me.
"That should calm him down," someone laughs.
I spot the needle just as it withdraws from my skin. A man sneers down at me and flicks the needle away.
"Enjoy it, Asher Volkov, it's the last peaceful rest you'll experience before what the real Pakhan has planned for you."
"Fuck you," I rasp. I try to reposition myself. Nothing happens. The others look relieved, moving away to lean on the walls of the ambulance. Come on! Move! I scream internally, working to force my hand to make a fist. My fingers tingle as they go numb.
I do my damnedest to flex my legs, my neck tensing from my effort. Move, come on, move! The only motion comes from the vehicle as it drives over the road.
No... this can't be happening. Once Yannick gets his hands on me, I'm done for. All of my efforts over the years to bring him down have been wasted—ended by a scared child. I was planning to kill him.
Maybe this is karma.
The ambulance jerks sideways so suddenly that medical supplies topple off the wall, raining around us. "What the fuck!" a man cries. The world inverts—I'm floating. I've never felt so light, and though everyone around me is shrieking, I'm relaxed—detached from reality—like all of this is a dream I'll wake up from any moment.
Everything slams to a halt. All the men in the ambulance somersault around in boneless heaps, their cries cutting off abruptly. Metal crunching on metal fill my ears; it's all I hear. Glass shatters, shards of it bouncing against my face and limbs. Some of it dusts into my hair.
The sensation of flying continues on even though we've stopped moving. Around me comes the soft groans of those lying in piles of twisted legs and arms.
The sedative continues to course through my veins, taking the last of my strength. I can hardly turn my head to blink blearily as the back doors of the ambulance burst apart. Through my fuzzy vision I make out the shape of someone entering the vehicle. They're white as snow—something bright flashes in their grip.
Pop pop pop! My ears ring from the closeness of the gun going off.
Blood flicks onto my chest from the skull of the man nearest me. He collapses, his mouth agape.
"I've got him!" A woman's voice yells. I think it's familiar, but my ears are buzzing, making every sound an echo of itself. A white ski mask and a pair of dark eyes fill my world. Mila rips the mask away, reaching for me. "Jesus, you look like shit."
"Mila?" I whisper.
"Help me with him," she says to someone just behind her. Men—my men—fill the ambulance. They kick aside the corpses until there's enough clearance to lift my gurney onto its wheels, then they cut my straps away.
My heart beats quicker as relief floods me in a dizzying rush. "What are you doing here?" I groan.
"Saving your ass," Mila says. "Move him to the car, and fast."
I try not to grimace when three men hoist me under my arms and around my ankles. I'm carried like a sack of corn out of the ambulance. As we move over the snow, I see a silver car parked nearby, its headlights blinding me. Another car—a black Tesla—is crammed against the ambulance. Its whole front is crumpled in. One of my men is reversing it out of the snow and back onto the road as two others push the front of it to help.
As I'm placed in the rear of the silver car, I let out a ragged groan. "Apologies, my Pakhan," the man holding my feet says, trying to ease me in more gently.
Mila rips the other door open, sitting beside me. She works to ease me up, but I'm struggling to move my own head. My eyelids won't obey either, they keep drooping.
"The fuck did they do to you?" she growls.
I spread my lips—no sound comes out. She grabs my shoulder, shaking me. Now she's moving her lips and no sound is exiting. My whole head is throbbing. The pain is finally slipping away. It's taking my energy with it.
I'm going to live. I'll be able to stop Yannick. He won't win, he can't win.
I won't let him.
I'll... I'll stop him and I'll... save her.
I have to save her.
"Hey!" Mila's voice sounds like it's a hundred feet above me. "Stay with me! Wake up!"
I can't see anything. My eyelids are too heavy to lift. With the last of my strength being sapped away, I manage one word before sinking into nothingness.
"Camila."
Camila twirls across the stage, her long hair barely keeping up with her. The fullness of her skirt is white as the moon. There's no music that I hear, but she spins to the rhythm, in tune in a way only someone who grew up dancing could be. Bright lights illuminate her movements, blocking out everything else. I can't see beyond the pitch-black shadows around the edges of the stage.
"Camila," I utter, taking a step towards her. My legs feel wrong. I'm jittery all over. She spins further away, not once looking at me. "Camila!" My legs give out, knees slamming onto the hard surface of the stage.
I look at my hands where they brace on the wood. They're bare. My wedding ring is gone.
