She asks, “What was that song about?” Most of the words were English, but she couldn’t figure out what they were trying to say.
“It tells of the Russians deporting the Tatars from Crimea in the Great Patriotic War. It’s very powerful, even—”
A drunk starts singing in Russian in a rough tenor loud enough to drown out both Galina and the TVs.
Russia – our holy nation.
Russia – our beloved country.
A mighty will, great glory –
These are yours for all time!
His buddies join in using a couple slightly different keys. Carson recognizes the piece: it’s the Russian national anthem.
Galina looks disgusted. She shoots an evil stare across the room at the men, who return it. Then she stands and belts in Ukrainian with a clear, strong soprano voice.
Glorious spirit of Ukraine shines and lives forever.
Blessed by Fortune, brotherhood will stand up together.
What? Carson doesn’t know this one. She assumes it’s the Ukrainian national anthem.
The drunks lurch to their feet and sing louder. They throw gestures—gang signs?—at Galina. She catches them and hurls them back.
Galina waves to Carson to get up and sing. Carson doesn’t know the words. She looks them up on Heitmann’s phone, stands, then flogs her wavering mezzo to keep up with Galina. A singer, she’s not.
Both sides stagger to an end at roughly the same time. The drunks yell, “Fascists! Go back to Kyiv!” and other endearments. Galina shouts “Sataná!” and “Kacápskyi!” Carson tries to pull her down onto her bench but can’t make her stay. The men edge toward them.
Carson’s getting worried. She can take down a gaggle of old drunks with not much trouble. She doesn’t know what the consequences might be, though, and doesn’t want to find out. And her body armor’s half a block away. She grabs Galina’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
Galina yanks her arm away. “No! I am staying to watch the show.” The way she sways says she may be a bit tipsy.
A fiftyish guy with a Molson muscle and seriously bad teeth is just a few feet away. He holds a beer bottle by the neck, like a club.
Carson scruffs Galina like she would a naughty dog. “Listen,” she growls. “You threw rocks at the wasp’s nest. The wasps are coming for you. We’re done here.”
“Ow! You’re hurting me!”
“They’ll hurt you worse. Let’s go.”
There are too many pissed and pissed-off men between them and the front door. Carson drags Galina toward the back door. The youngest lush—a wiry guy in his forties with a scar down his right cheek—tries to slip in behind them. Fuck this. Carson draws and cocks her pistol, aims at Scarface, and snarls in Russian, “Move or die.”
He moves.
The women burst through the back door into a jumble of garbage cans, broken furniture, and cardboard boxes. Carson grabs a handful Galina’s coat collar and hustles her toward the street as the men tumble outside after them.
By the time the drunks start throwing bottles, Carson and Galina are running down the street.
Chapter 15
Carson drives the kilometer and a half to the house on the northern edge of town. The streetlights don’t put out much light and nearly all the windows are dark; she has to watch carefully for stray dogs and drunks.
She glares at Galina. “You had to do that.”
Galina giggles. “It was fun.”
“Fun?” She shakes her head. “You don’t drink much, do you?”
“No. It’s bad for you.” Her arm slews around to point in the bar’s general direction. “Look at them. Too much drinking. That’s what happens.” She speaks over-carefully in the way not-quite-drunk people do when they want to convince themselves they’re not quite drunk.
There’s hardly any traffic, so they pull into the abandoned house’s driveway faster than Carson expected.
The squatters didn’t clean up after themselves. The kitchen tap produces water the color of tree sap that smells like it could remove the linoleum floor. The two remaining light bulbs still work. There’s a stripped double bed, some creaky chairs, an overturned table, and lots of empty beer bottles. Galina was right, though: it still has an intact(ish) roof and working doors.
It’s in the low-teens Celsius and cloudy with a brisk wind that hurries their unloading of the car. A dim rumbling to the west seasons the sound picture without overwhelming it. Carson listens for a few moments. “Is that thunder?”
“No. Artillery. It’s too far away to be a problem tonight.”
All the lights die. A hush settles on the town around them. “You were saying?”
“Hmpf. This happens all the time. Someone shoots a power line or a generator and the lights go out. Or a powerplant breaks. All the engineers went to the West, so no one knows how to fix anything.” Galina laughs. “It’s very, very funny. Except tonight.”
“Why tonight?”
“Eurovision! I want to see if Jamala goes to the finals.”
Carson mutters “for fuck’s sake” in English under her breath. “Why do you like that show so much?”
“Eurovision?” Galina’s face turns serious. “I’ve loved it since I was a girl. But now? There’s so much hate and killing and death all around. The water doesn’t work, the lights go off. I hate the news. I miss my husband. But Eurovision is still the same. It’s pretty, everyone is excited, the songs are fun. All the nations compete, but with singing. There’s no war, no killing, no hate. It reminds me…” She sighs. “I remember what it’s like to be human.” She tugs on Carson’s sleeve. “Let’s listen to the radio together.”
“Listen to what?” Carson’s exhausted. She’d planned some quality time searching the painting for a tracking bug. After that, she wants to get the goddamn bra off, curl up in a sleeping bag, and turn out her own lights.
“Eurovision. Of course.”
Oh, for God’s sake. “It’s not over yet?”
“No. It goes to midnight. After the singing comes the voting. That’s the important part.”
The battle-scarred bed is calling Carson’s name. But she doesn’t want to shit on Galina’s fun or get into a fight with her. She still needs her. Being locked in a car for hours with someone who’s pissed off at her makes for a very, very long day. “How drunk are you?”
Galina shrugs. “Maybe a little. Why? How drunk are you?” She sounds almost playful.
“Not.” Carson’s totally sober. Lots of practice. “Shotgun’s still in the car?”
“No.”
“Get it. We’re not sitting in a dark car in a dark city without our weapons.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Galina throws her a sloppy salute, then wanders to the bedroom.
Carson straps on her vest, sweeps the Ksyukha off the weary kitchen table—they’d set it on its feet after clearing the beer bottles—then trudges out the side door to make another circuit around the house. Just to make sure.
By the time Carson returns to the driveway and slides into the Slavuta’s passenger-side door, Galina’s already settled in and has the radio playing louder than necessary. A woman’s singing what sounds like the title theme for a James Bond flick that hasn’t been made yet. Galina leans toward Carson. “Albania.” She rolls her eyes in a way that says, that explains everything.
Carson doesn’t pay attention. Her neck’s tingling. It’s dark out there in a way a city never is, even if the power’s out. She hates not being able to see much more than a few meters away and wishes the side-view mirror wasn’t missing. She keeps the Ksyukha on her lap and the flashlight between her thighs and peers out each window in turn.
The Bond theme gives way to a bouncy dance tune that starts vaguely like “Another One Bites the Dust.” When that ends, talking heads take over.
Carson tunes them out. She’d been edgy leaving a million euros in cash and a painting worth seven figures or more buried in the trunk when she
and Galina were at dinner and then in the bar. Having them in the house doesn’t make her any less nervous. Knowing that Stepaniak can find her—more likely, find the painting—doesn’t help. She’d thought about bringing the painting out here to search it while Galina does her fangirl thing, but she’d need lots of light to see what she’s doing and that would kill her night vision.
The car’s interior lights up. It’s Galina’s phone. Carson barks, “The fuck are you doing?”
“Language! I’m voting.” Galina’s thumbs hammer the screen. “Vote for Jamala! Come on, vote!”
“Turn. That. Thing. Off!” Carson reaches to grab Galina’s phone. Her night vision’s shot, spiking her tingling sensation.
Galina crams herself against the driver’s door, holding her phone just out of reach as she tries to swat away Carson’s hand. She freezes. “What was that?”
“What?”
“I thought I saw a light in the front window.”
“Good try. Turn off the phone. Now.”
“No, truly. Look.”
Carson glances toward the three six-paned windows in the street-facing wall. Galina’s right: a blue-white glow bobs around behind the tattered lace curtains. What the…? She checks her watch—they’ve been in the car for almost an hour. Squatters? Stepaniak? He’s had more than enough time to finish his meeting and find them. “Stay here. Lock the doors.”
“But…”
Carson quietly shuts the door on Galina’s protest. She readies her assault carbine, then ghosts around the house. Moving lights: one in front, one in the back where the bedroom is.
There’s two doors—one on the driveway side, closed, and an open one in back. A glow lights the bedroom through the open door. The cash and the painting are in there, hidden under the bed behind the duffels, the only place in the house that offers any concealment. Okay if she or Galina is sleeping on the bed, as she’d planned; not so good when they’re both in the car.
Wait for them out here? Go in after them? Waiting has some merit; she can engage on her own terms, get some surprise on her side. However, “outside” means broadcasting a firefight through the whole neighborhood. It also opens more escape routes for the men inside.
Going in pins them in place. However, rooting them out means a nasty, close-quarters firefight.
Staying outside seems the best of two bad choices.
Carson steps back until she’s a few meters from the house, then goes prone. She switches from the Ksyukha to the pistol so she can fire one-handed and sights in on the door. First one out gets a nasty surprise.
It doesn’t take long. Both lights converge in the bedroom, then blink off. Nothing happens for a few minutes. Getting their night vision back, she figures. She crosses her wrists (pistol in her right hand, flashlight, off for now, in her left, both aiming at the door) and concentrates her ears on the doorway.
Boots rustle on a wooden floor. A shadow shifts in the back door.
She snaps on her flashlight, catching two men on the threshold. They freeze just long enough for her to try to double-tap the one on the left. He goes down after the first torso shot, grunting. The other guy crouches and swings up his weapon.
Carson douses her flashlight beam and rolls to her left just as he fires. Phutphutphutphut. A suppressed weapon. Bullets slam into the ground to her right, too close, spraying her with dirt. She fires twice at a point behind the muzzle flash. Her own gunfire fuzzes out her ears. If she hit anything, she can’t hear it.
One’s down, a solid torso shot. If these two really are Stepaniak and Stas—she couldn’t tell in the few moments of light—they’re wearing vests, so the best she can hope for is that whoever she hit is as out of breath as she was at the chicken farm.
She rolls to her feet and charges to the back corner of the house farthest from the open door. As she’s moving, a blue-white beam floods the jumbled back yard. It sweeps across the decrepit storage sheds and empty chicken coop, then snaps off.
They know she’s out here. The only surprise left is where she is now. Their next move should be to try the side door by the driveway. She needs to get there first.
Carson runs as quickly and quietly as her ribs let her around the house’s front to the gravel driveway’s edge. As she passes the Slavuta, she glances inside: dark and quiet. She assumes Galina’s got enough sense to be head-down behind the dash. She ducks behind the front-left fender, aims her Ksyukha at the side door, and waits.
A black void replaces the door’s dull gray. Carson ducks an instant before the tactical light skids along the car’s hood, then slides down the driveway toward the back yard. When it disappears, she snaps to her firing position.
Movement in the doorway.
She fires a short burst into the void. A squawk; a thud. A hit?
Phutphutphutphut. Rounds clang into the Slavuta’s hood, crash into a headlight. The side door slams shut.
So far, so good. She’s hit one of them twice, or both once. Carson knows their dilemma: one shooter or two? They have to assume two, so they’re pinned. She hopes.
They could stay in there all night, nurse their wounds. They could try to go out a window. The house has windows on three sides. She can’t run around enough to cover them all; the little running she’s done has her side screaming.
They’re inside. They’re hurting. It’s her move, now.
She carefully twists the rusty doorknob, eases open the side door (thankfully, no squeaking), then slips inside the entry hall. Her heart’s beating hard enough to warn the intruders.
She swivels right, then stops in the kitchen to listen. Rustling, the occasional squeak. She wishes she’d spent more time getting used to the layout in here. Too late now. She switches the Ksyukha to semiauto—full auto burns too much ammo—then glides slowly to her left toward the door to the front room.
Just a smidgen shy of the doorframe, something crunches under her boot.
A bright blue-white flood slams into her. She dekes to her left as a burst of suppressed fire fills the room. Plaster dust and breaking glass attack her. She rolls to the doorway and fires two rounds at whatever’s behind the light, but that target’s already moving. All she hears is plaster cracking.
Carson sidesteps into the front room. The bedroom’s through the next door. The back door’s in there. The laundry room-washroom thing is to the left through the bedroom, taking her to where she started. Will they try to circle behind her? Leave?
She stops at the door to the bedroom. She can hear whispering inside in a language she doesn’t understand. The sharp tang of blood.
There’ll never be a better time…
Carson pivots to aim through the doorway, flicking on her flashlight as she moves.
An orange flash of eyes surrounded by a balaclava. She gets off two rounds before a chorus of phutphutphut and bullets smashing off the walls drive her back into the front room.
Boots scrape on the wooden floor. She kills the flashlight, drops on her face, rolls onto her back, then sticks the Ksyukha into the bedroom. A shadow retreats into the entry hall. She fires twice into its center. She can’t hear any impact; she can’t hear a thing except static.
She crawls into the bedroom, using the bed for cover. Risks using the flashlight: nobody here. Up on her feet, fast to the entry hall. Before she can peek inside, the doorjamb disintegrates next to her, spraying her with splinters and chunks of wall. She throws herself between the bed and the back door.
Thunk. Something hard rolls across the floor.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…
She drags the mattress on top of herself. A thunderclap rattles the room an instant later. Plaster from the walls and ceiling cascades like white rain. The window above her disintegrates. Something heavy lands on her, but she doesn’t dare try to see what. All she can hear is static.
A grenade. A fucking grenade…
She wasn’t scared before. Amped, hypervigilant, heart going like a squirrel on speed, but not
scared. Now she’s scared. The next step is for one or both these assholes to walk in and spray the mattress with bullets.
Carson tries not to breathe. Not to cough, though her mouth and sinuses are full of dust. Make them think she’s dead. I can’t hear. I need to hear. Where are they? What are they doing?
Seconds last hours. Nothing happens. Where are they?
Finally, Carson manages to wriggle out from under what’s left of the mattress and the bed on top of it. Standing takes a lot of effort. Nobody’s shot her. Yet.
The flashlight beam shows her a burned hole in the bedroom floor. Plaster scoured off the two walls closest to the door to the front room, exposing the concrete block. Nightstand fragments and the door. Shrapnel holes in the ceiling. The mattress’s top is a tangle of tears and blooms of stuffing. The bed saved her. The heavy wooden frame soaked up the grenade fragments that otherwise would’ve gone straight through the mattress into her.
The backpack with the money is gone. So’s the portfolio with the painting. Fuck!
She shakes her head clear(ish), staggers into the entry (empty), sweeps the kitchen and parlor. Nobody.
Outside, the Slavuta’s empty. Where’s Galina?
Boom.
It sounds far away but probably isn’t. Her ears are still totally jacked up.
Boom.
Not a grenade. Not loud enough. She shines the flashlight into the car. Galina’s shotgun is gone.
Gunfire cracks from down the street. Single shots, unsuppressed. Carson lumbers down the driveway and hits the asphalt in time to see the dark box of an SUV pull away from in front of the house two doors down. There’s a thump. A shape falls away from the right side.
Carson automatically empties half a magazine into the retreating SUV’s rear end. It swerves across the road several times before dissolving into the dark.
She tries to run toward the SUV, but the pounding in her head threatens to explode her skull. She slows to a trot. “Galina?” Her throat tells her she’s yelling as loud as she can, but it sounds like her voice is a block away.
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