21. Where’s Halston? #3
“What? You fight with Bulgrov!” Natasha screeched. “Are you out goddamn mind!”
Silence, while Natasha listened.
“You shot him! What the hell, Dmitri!” A pause. “Tell me he is alive,” Natasha bleated, then started coughing. “I don’t have inhaler and cold makes my asthma.”
Good to know.
“You can’t take him to hospital.” Natasha grew silent again. “We make situation good. Where are you?” More listening. “Keeping pressure on him. Dmitri, this will blow up in face!” She ended the call and shrieked at the darkening heavens.
Halston startled, then quickly shut the door and rushed back into the main room. She stopped short as Natasha stormed inside.
“I have emergency,” Natasha said, her breathing labored.
The shitter returned, his gun in hand.
“Mne nuzhno uyti. Vy glavnyy,” Natasha said to the Bratva. I have to leave. You’re in charge.
“The insults continue,” Halston said. “You’re putting that idiot in charge. He’s too busy farting and shitting to have a clue what’s going on. Stupid woman,” she hissed.
“He has gun. You don’t.” Natasha ran out.
Halston walked over to the group. “Is there signal in the building?”
“The laptops are wired in, but signal is terrible and keeps cutting out,” her mom replied.
The Bratva walked over, pointed his weapon at Halston. “Russkiy, ili ya tebya ub'yu.” Russian, or I kill you.
She needed to move this monster out of the way, Halston style.
“YA sprosil, byla li u nikh voda,” Halston lied. I asked if they had any water.
He pointed to the room where the food was kept. Striding past him, she eyed the old refrigerator. She half expected to see a rotting animal carcass inside. Instead, she saw wrapped meat and dozens of bottles of water. She grabbed several bottles and set them on the table, returning for more.
Once all the hostages had been given two bottles each, she addressed the gunman. “Spasibo. Kak vas zovut?” Thank you. What is your name?
“Sergey, Serge.”
“Khorosho, Serge, nam nuzhno nayti lekarstvo dlya bol'nogo,” she said. Okay, Serge, we need to find the medicine for the sick man.
“Net.” No.
“Wrong answer, asshole.”
“Govorite po-russki,” Serge said. Speak Russian.
Go fuck yourself.
She cracked her knuckles.
If he wouldn’t help her, she’d move him out of the way.
It was that simple. This was life or death, and she hadn’t the patience nor the temperament to begin negotiations.
With Natasha gone, she needed to act fast. No telling how quickly she’d be returning.
If Natasha had that asshole Petrov with her, things would only get worse.
She needed to isolate the guard from the group, especially since he was armed. She had to expect the gun would fire, and she couldn’t risk someone getting shot.
“Tualet,” she said. Toilet.
He brought her into what looked like his sleeping space, pointed to a door. She entered, shut the door. While she went to the bathroom, she formulated a plan, then another if that one failed. Her primary goal: Get the firearm away from the Bratva.
She left the bathroom, spotted the bottles of vodka on the dresser.
He stood like a sentry in the doorway.
“Kak dolgo my zdes' zastryanem?” she asked. How long are we stuck here?
YA ne znayu,” he replied. I don’t know.
“Podelites' so mnoy vodkoy?” she asked. Share the vodka with me?
He took a step, stopped.
C’mon keep going.
Then another.
Serge looked to be five-ten. Aside from his bulging gut, he was pretty muscular. She breathed deep, releasing the air slowly. She had to be swift, and she had to be exacting. There was zero room for error.
He unscrewed the top from the bottle. “Bez ochkov.” No glasses.
“Day mne butylku, novuyu,” she said. “YA perevodchik, a ne kakaya-to tam nyanya. My — russkiye. My p'yom vodku.” Give me the bottle, the new one. I'm an interpreter, not a damn babysitter. We are Russian. We drink vodka.
He laughed full-on, an unappealing display of gold teeth flashed on his ugly mug.
He offered her the unopened bottle.
She accepted it. “Spasibo.” Thank you.
He raised his own bottle, downed a mouthful. She tried untwisting the lid, faking her inability to do so.
“Dzhentl'men otkryvayet butylku damy,” she said, this time with a smile of her own. A gentleman opens the lady’s bottle.
He set down his bottle. To open hers, he had to set down the gun. The second he did, she jumped on his back, positioned her hands on his massive head, and twisted.
Hard.
Very, very hard.
It was violent, it was intense, and it was lethal.
He started collapsing. She jumped off, grabbed the gun off the dresser, and shot him at point-blank range.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Two in the chest, one kill shot to his forehead. Blood spatter sprayed her, but she didn’t flinch. As she stared at the lifeless eyes of the dead man, she had to resist the urge to spit on his bloodied chest.
Three people rushed into the room.
She whipped her gaze at them. Her dad and two other men.
“Ohmygod,” her dad said. “Are you shot?”
“No. Help me wrap him in the bedding, then we’ll move him into the woods before the She Devil returns with her extremely fucked up brother.”
They stood there, their mouths agape until Halston’s mom ran in.
Fear filled her wide eyes as she stood next to her husband, her gaze dropping to the weapon in Halston’s hand.
“Is that your blood?” her mom asked, the fear in her voice a trembling whisper.
“It’s his. I need these three to wake up from their trance and help me get him out before the others come back.”
Her mom stripped the bedding.
“Dustin,” her mom said. “Halston’s okay.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m Minka.”
Her mother’s shocked expression made her want to laugh, but she had to stay focused. Working quickly, they pushed the body onto the bedding, then rolled him up in it. On the count of three, all five lifted him, hurried out the front door.
The dead Russian weighed a ton. Though Halston’s muscles screamed in protest, she urged them on, encouraging them to push past the pain.
Though they were afraid, probably starving, and somewhat dehydrated, they worked efficiently to carry the body twenty feet into a densely wooded area.
They left him there, covered him with nearby brush, downed branches, and fallen leaves.
Next, Halston opened the van door that housed the luggage, then returned to the four, waiting outside.
“Ask the man who’s not well—Lars—which bag is his,” Halston commanded. “We’ll sneak his medicine inside.”
Her dad vanished around the corner of the building while her mom sidled close.
“Are you okay?” her mom asked.
“I’m better now,” she replied.
“We’re accessories to murder,” bleated one of the scientists.
“Self-defense,” Halston pushed back. “These people are savages. They don’t care about you. They only care about you finishing the job for them. Once you do that, they’ll kill you. All of you.”
Her mom and a different scientist gasped as her dad hurried around the corner. “We’re looking for a black carry-on bag. His name is on the luggage tag.”
“I’ll stand watch,” Halston said as the scientists climbed into the van.
They returned with four prescription bottles. Racing inside, two of the scientists went into their shabby sleeping quarters to administer his meds.
When Halston’s mom clasped her hand, her mother’s familiar touch brought her a brief moment of comfort. “We need to get that blood spatter off you,” her mom whispered.
In the small bathroom with nothing more than a sink and a toilet, he mom cleaned her up as best she could.
“Turn your clothing inside out,” her mom said.
Halston kissed her mom’s cheek.
“Seeing you covered in blood terrified me,” her mom said.
“It’s going to be okay, Mom.”
As Halston quickly reversed her shirt, her mom said, “I hope you’re right. At the moment, I’m not feeling very confident.”
“I need to get everyone out,” Halston said, “before the bitch from hell comes back.”