by Nicole Fox
The two men are cutting Cyrus free when I drive up on them. Cyrus is still handcuffed, but his feet are free, and like the rat he is, he runs the moment he sees me coming. The two guards who found him, however, are not as lucky. I see the twin expressions of horror on their faces as I plow into them and they fly up and over the hood of the car.
Before their bodies even hit the ground behind me, I turn and head for the men standing between me and Aleksandr. The more of them I can get rid of, the better.
They are standing in a line, mouths hanging open, shocked at what they are seeing. And then, they begin to scatter.
I study their ranks just long enough to note that Aleksandr isn’t among them, and then I press the gas pedal to the floor.
Bullets ping off the sides of the Hummer, and I realize it is armored. They can’t hit me.
I take down a line of guards in one fail swoop, knocking them around like black bowling pins. A few of them disappear beneath the tires, and I don’t even feel the bump as I drive over top of them.
Then, I turn towards another group. More bullets zing past the car, a few denting the hood, but none of them touch me.
I try to look for Aleksandr, but with bodies flying in front of the windshield, I can’t see him. I can only hope I’ve offered enough of a distraction for him to get away.
I run down another man, watching in the rearview mirror as he flies over the roof and then imbeds headfirst in the grass like a misfired arrow. I make a U-turn in the grass, heading back towards where a few of the men are running for the safety of the cabin, as if wooden walls are going to keep me from hunting them down, and I see Boris standing directly in my path.
Aleksandr doesn’t appear to be anywhere nearby, and Boris has his gun aimed directly at me.
I press down on the gas as hard as I can, and the tires spin for a second before they find traction and the car launches forward.
Fire erupts from the end of Boris’ weapon as he shoots at me again and again, and I can’t wait to run him down. I can’t wait until he is bloody pulp beneath the wheels of his own car.
And then, the windshield explodes.
Chapter 20
Aleksandr
The car comes out of nowhere.
For a second, it is barreling straight towards me, and I think that this is how I’m going to die. Boris is going to run me down and leave me in this field to rot into the ground.
But then, I realize Boris and his men are standing between me and the car.
And Boris is screaming.
“Who is that? Shoot them! Get out of the way!”
Whatever is happening, it has nothing to do with his plan. It is the distraction I’ve been waiting for.
The car turns sharply and rams into the two men bringing Cyrus out of the house. They fly up in the air like human confetti. One of the men loses his shoes, and they fly through the air and land close to my car.
Boris is still barking orders at his men, and for the time being, he has forgotten all about me. His plan is unravelling, and he is trying his best to keep things on track.
I back away from him slowly, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself lest he decide to scrap his plan of torturing Zoya in front of me and just shoot me in the head to get it over with.
The car is crisscrossing all over the field, mowing down Boris’ men like weeds, and I have no idea who is driving, but I’m grateful for them. As the car heads towards where Boris is standing, he begins looking around frantically, trying to find his escape, and that is when I find mine.
I dart behind the rear bumper of my car and pull my gun from the strap across my chest.
With Boris standing so close to me before, reaching for the weapon wasn’t an option, but now I’m more glad than ever that I brought it.
“Where is he?” Boris blubbers, and I know he has realized I’m gone.
Shots are ringing out all around me, most of them aimed at the Hummer currently turning the guards into mulch, but I know it won’t be long before they turn on me.
I crawl around to the passenger side of the car, putting as much space between myself and Boris as possible, and then I stand up and rest my shooting arm on the top of the car.
It has been a long time since I’ve been in a firefight, but the instinct is still there. I fire shot after shot, pausing only to take aim at the next thug before pulling the trigger again. Men start to go down all around Boris. As much as I want to put a shot in his head the way he put one in my father’s, I also want to save him for last.
Just as he wanted to torture me with Zoya, I want to torment him by making him watch the destruction of all of his carefully laid plans.
The only problem is that there are more men than I realized.
The twenty men in the center of the field weren’t Boris’ only guards. More are pouring from the trees on the left side, and if I stay behind this car, they’ll overpower me. Even with the help of the person in the Hummer, there are too many.
Boris breaks away from the group of men I’m currently aiming at and moves closer to the cabin. He is staring off towards the trees, and I think he is staring at his reinforcements making their way through the grass, but then I realize he is facing off with the Hummer.
The windows are too dark for me to make out the driver, but I watch as the car pulls a quick U-turn in the field and then comes to a stop.
Boris is standing in front of the vehicle, chest rising and falling like mad, and then he raises his gun.
At the same instant, the Hummer’s engine revs, the sound echoing off the trees like a roll of thunder. For a second, the tires spin, dirt and grass flying into the air. But just as Boris pulls the trigger, the Hummer shoots forward.
I pause my own shooting to watch it happen, to have the satisfaction of seeing my uncle be demolished by the armored vehicle, but when the Hummer is still a good distance away, the windshield shatters.
The car swerves hard to the right, taking out a few guards, but leaving Boris unscathed. I watch as the car rumbles across the grass, losing speed with every second.
Whoever was behind the wheel, they aren’t behind it anymore.
I have to fight this alone.
The men crossing from the other side of the field are too close for hesitation. I have to act now.
I run out from behind the car, staying as low and small as I can to avoid the bullets whizzing through the air. Apparently convinced the driver of the Hummer is no longer a threat, Boris’ remaining men are looking for someone else to take aim at.
“There he is!” The shout comes from closer to the cabin, and I look up and see Cyrus jumping up in the air, his hands still handcuffed behind his back. The men turn to him, but because he doesn’t have the use of his hands, he is just bobbing his head erratically, making it difficult for them to pinpoint where he is pointing.
I lift my gun and fire.
Cyrus takes the shot in the chest and falls to his knees.
It feels good to finally give that rat what he deserves, but the shot comes at a price. Boris’ men trace the shot back to me and bullets start whirring past my ears. Still, I hunker down and keep moving.
Then, I feel searing heat rip through my leg.
I know I’ve been shot, but there is too much adrenaline for me to feel it yet. As long as I keep moving, I can distract myself. As long as I don’t slow down, it won’t hurt.
More heat tears across the back of my neck, but I know it is a graze. If it wasn’t, I’d be dead right now. Or, at least, paralyzed.
So, I keep moving.
I can feel blood dripping down my back and soaking into my shirt. My pant leg is heavy like I stepped in a deep puddle, but I don’t look down. Not yet. Not until I have my uncle’s body at my feet.
By the time Boris takes in the scene around him and realizes how close I am, it is too late. Now I’m the one with a gun to his head.
“Drop your fucking weapon,” I growl in his ear.
“My men will kill you,” he snaps.
“Will they?” I spin us both around in a circle, taking in the blank faces of his men around us. “Because if they do, they kill you, too. Unless, of course, you trust their aim enough to take that risk.”
We are standing almost cheek to cheek, and I can feel the sweat from his skin dripping down my chin. He is shaking with rage and exertion and adrenaline, and then, all at once, he drops his gun and lets it fall at his feet.
Sticking close to him, I take a few steps away from the weapon, doing my best not to limp because of my injured leg. The men standing around us back away to maintain their distance.
“Shoot me if you must,” I shout to them. “If you do, you’ll kill your boss, too.”
A good leader would have told his men to fire. A good leader would have told his men to win at all costs.
But Boris is not a good leader.
He is selfish. He is out for himself with no real concern for the men around him.
If they realized how little he actually cares for him, they’d shoot us both dead on the spot. I have no intention of informing them.
Slowly, I lead Boris back towards the Hummer. The engine is still on, though I haven’t seen the driver emerge yet. They are probably dead inside. But the bloody mess inside will be worth it because the Hummer will offer significantly more protection than my car as I drive away should Boris’ men decide to shoot.
“What are you going to do with me?” Boris asks, trying to sound tough, but I know him well enough to know when he is scared.
He screwed me over, I fucked his plans, and now I am in control. There are very few scenarios in which this turns out well for him.
“That entirely depends on how well you cooperate in the next minute,” I say calmly, adjusting the gun at the back of his head and keeping an eye on his men. Everyone is watching us helplessly as we move closer to the getaway car. “Resist me at all, and I’ll pull the trigger and be gone before your body hits the ground.”
“You are lucky, you know that?”
I snort. “I’ve been shot twice. I feel very lucky right now.”
“I mean about Mikhail,” he says. “He killed himself. You didn’t have to fight for control the way I did.”
“You think I would have killed my own brother?”
“Your situation was the same as mine,” he says. “You just got lucky.”
I’m tempted to pull the trigger right there. I’m tempted to blow his brains out just for suggesting my life is better now that Mikhail is dead.
“Fuck you,” I whisper against the back of his ear. “That only goes to show what a heartless son of a bitch you really are.”
“Maybe I am,” he agrees. “But at least I tried to take control of my life. That is more than anyone can say about you.”
I walk us around to the driver side of the Hummer, one arm wrapped around Boris’ chest, the other holding the gun to his head. My hands are full, and I’m not sure how I’m going to get in the car and get out of here without making myself vulnerable. Plus, there is the matter of the likely deceased driver.
“Hello?” I call over my shoulder. “Anyone alive back there?”
“I lined the shot up perfectly,” he says. “I saw it go in. I fucking killed her.”
His words sink in slowly, but as they do, an icy chill fills my veins. The adrenaline that had been curbing the edge of my pain is gone. My leg is excruciating, the back of my neck is throbbing, but nothing compares to the ache in my chest.
“Who?”
“Who do you think?” Boris snorts. “Your bitch escaped. She was driving the car.”
I feel stupid that it never even occurred to me that Zoya was in the car, but more than that, I’m enraged.
I pull the trigger without even thinking about it.
Boris goes limp immediately, falling back on me, and I have to fall against the side of the Hummer to avoid being crushed under his weight.
My left leg can barely hold any weight, so I grab the driver’s side door handle for stability, and the door opens. That is when I see her.
Her hair is a tangled halo around her pale face, one hand still on the steering wheel. She is slumped in the seat, blood soaking into the cushions. But she is still Zoya.
The men across the field are screaming, and I know I have to move if I want to get out of here in time, but I feel frozen. Like I’m wading through a pond filled with molasses. I want to run, want to move, want to react that way I’ve been trained my entire life to react under pressure, but my brain isn’t working. I’m sluggish and slow, still trying to process that Zoya is dead in front of me.
Then, I hear her voice.
Alek, go.
If she is dead, then she died to save me, so that is all the encouragement I need.
As gently and quickly as I can, I slide her across the console into the passenger seat, jump into the driver’s side with my one good leg, and slam on the gas before the door is even closed.
The ping of bullets hitting the armored siding propels me forward and helps me keep my eyes on the road, but as soon as I’m out of the direct range of bullets, I reach across the console and caress her arm.
Her body is still warm but that could be because she so recently died. It doesn’t mean she is alive.
“Zoya?” My voice breaks on her name, and I slam the gas pedal to the floor, pushing the car to the very edge of its capabilities. “Can you hear me?”
She doesn’t move, and I stare through the shattered windshield and try to find the tiniest shred of hope to cling to.
“I love you,” I say.
To Zoya.
To the universe.
To myself.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever love another person, but I love you, and you can’t die like this. I’m sorry for yelling at you the day I left. I’m sorry for leaving. None of it matters now. You just need to hang on. Because I love you.”
I feel stupid, but Zoya is the only thing that pulled me through the last two weeks. She is the reason I’m alive, and I won’t give up on her.
When I reach over and grab her hand, I think I feel her fingers flex in mine, but I can’t be sure.
I can only hope.
Chapter 21
Aleksandr
The nurses are concerned about my leg and the graze on the back of my neck, though the leg is their main concern. I could care less about it. My only concern is for Zoya.
“The bone could be broken,” a red-headed nurse says. She is middle-aged and has mascara smudged under her eyes. “You could get an infection.”
“It was cleaned when I arrived,” I say.
As soon as I walked through the front doors of the hospital with Zoya in my arms, we were swarmed by emergency room nurses. They strapped her to a gurney and wheeled her away, and I took a seat in the waiting room. It took the woman at the front desk twenty minutes to realize that the blood on my clothes wasn’t just from Zoya’s wound. Since then, I’ve been fighting off nurses like a plague of locusts.
“And my leg isn’t broken. I’m walking fine.”
“We don’t know that until we get an x-ray,” she insists, growing more and more impatient.
I wave her away. “I’ll worry about it later.”
“You might as well worry about it now,” she snaps. “That woman will be—”
“Zoya.” I turn my full attention to her, eyes narrowed. “Her name is Zoya.”
Though she doesn’t lose her own look of determination, she softens slightly. “Zoya might be in surgery for a long time. When she wakes up, you won’t want to leave her side to worry about your own wounds. It is better to do it now.”
I know she is right, but the idea of patching up my own body while Zoya might be dying somewhere in this hospital makes me physically ill. If something happens to her, I want to be the first one to know. I want to be waiting for news. I don’t want to be whacked out on pain killers.
“I want to be here in case she wakes up,” I say.
“She isn’t going to wake up anyt
ime soon,” she says. “Her wound was serious. They are doing everything they can to save her and the baby. Now let us help you.”
My heart squeezes in my chest, and the force of it nearly knocks me over. I’m weak. I don’t need to look at my pant leg to know I’ve lost too much blood. Still, I don’t want to go.
“Aleksandr?”
I look up and see my mother walking towards me. She is in a pair of black slacks with a dark blue button-down shirt, but she might as well be in a ball gown compared to me. My pants are ripped down the seam and covered in blood, and my white shirt is now twenty shades of gray, brown, and red.
She rushes towards me, dropping into the chair next to me. “What happened? Are you all right?”
There is too much to tell her now, especially in front of a host of nurses, so I just nod. “I’m fine.”
“He isn’t,” the nurses says, turning to my mother, clearly hoping she will be able to talk some sense into me. She quickly runs through my list of injuries and potential complications, and by the end of it, my mother is grabbing my arm and pulling me from my chair.
“I’ll wait here. I’ll come find you as soon as I learn anything about Zoya.”
I hesitate, digging my good leg into the floor as a teenage intern rolls a wheelchair over to me.
“Go,” she insists. “Everything will be fine.”
I hope to God she’s right.
Just as I suspected, the bone isn’t broken, but the nurse wasn’t entirely wrong, either. It has only been a few hours since I was shot, but already the wound in my leg is red and inflamed, infection setting in. The red-haired nurse offers me anesthesia, but I can tell by the roll of her eyes that she knows I won’t take it. Instead, she gives me a mild painkiller and then gets to work.
I bite down on a rolled up wash cloth as they pull the bullet from my leg. Overall, I’ve endured worse, but there is a moment when she is digging in the wound for any fragments when my vision blacks out, and I have to lie back on the table.
Within an hour, my leg is bullet-free, cleaned, and bandaged, and the wound on the back of my neck is taken care of, as well.
