Chapter 15 Mara #2
“Claire?” I call out, my voice echoing slightly in the empty space. "Did you forget something?"
No response.
Maybe she can't hear me from the front. Maybe she's looking for her keys or her phone or whatever she came back for.
But something feels wrong.
And then I hear footsteps, slow, measured, moving through the main gallery toward the back.
“Claire?” I call again, louder this time. "Is everything alright?”
Still no response. The footsteps continue, getting closer.
My heart starts to pound. I look around the back room, suddenly aware of how trapped I am. The only exit is through the doorway where those footsteps are coming from. My phone is up front, charging, and nowhere in reach without going out toward those footsteps.
"Hello?" My voice is shakier now, fear bleeding through. "Who's there?"
The footsteps stop just outside the doorway. I can see a shadow on the floor, cast by the security lighting in the main gallery. A large shadow—too large to be Claire.
A man steps into the doorway, and my heart trips in my chest, palpitating behind my ribs as cold terror washes over me.
The man standing there is huge, over six feet, muscular in a violent, brutish way. His face is hard, with cold, flat eyes that sweep over me assessingly, like I'm a problem to be solved. He’s wearing black tactical clothes, and the way he moves as he comes further into the room makes my skin crawl.
This is not a customer. This is not someone who wandered in by accident.
He says something in Russian, his voice low and rough. I don't understand the words, but I understand the tone. It's a threat.
"I don't—I don't speak Russian," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He switches to English, his accent thick. "Mara Winslow.”
My blood runs cold. It's not a question. He knows who I am.
"Who are you? What do you want? Did—" I almost ask if I.S. sent him, but that sounds ridiculous. I don’t think I.S. would send another man to collect me. He’d come himself. And this man doesn’t look like he wants to take me anywhere gently.
He takes a step into the room, and I back up instinctively, my hip hitting the work table. "You are problem. You bring Sorokov here. Sergei does not want him here. We fix problem."
Sorokov.
Well, now I think I know his last name.
The thought slithers through my head in the moment before the pieces start to come together, and I stare at this broad, brutish man, realizing that this is something else. Someone knows about I.S., knows about the connection between us, and isn’t happy about it.
I’ve been dragged into yet another layer of this against my will, and now, the danger is more real than ever and altogether different.
"I don't know what you're talking about.” My voice is shaking so badly the words barely come out.
"You know." He takes another step closer. "You are his. This makes you target."
Terror floods through me, cold and sharp. The room suddenly feels impossibly small, the shelves and artwork closing in around me. He's blocking the only exit. My phone is in the other room. There's no one else in the building.
I'm alone with this man who just said I'm a target.
I could run, or I could fight, and there’s nowhere I can run unless I can somehow get around him.
He moves toward me, fast for someone his size, and instinct takes over. I grab the first thing my hand touches—a small ceramic piece from the table—and throw it at his face. It shatters against his shoulder, barely slowing him down.
He lunges for me, and I dodge to the side, knocking into a shelf.
Artwork crashes to the floor. I scream, even though I know no one will hear me—the neighboring businesses are closed for the night, and no one outside is going to come to my rescue.
His hand closes around my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
I claw at his face with my free hand, my nails raking across his cheek.
He grunts, his grip loosening for just a second, and I wrench myself free.
I bolt away on pure adrenaline, nothing in my head except survival now. He lunges again, grabbing me as I struggle, knocking into shelves, sending more artwork crashing to the floor. He's stronger than me, bigger than me, but I'm desperate and terrified and fighting for my life.
I drive a knee up into his groin, meeting thick, heavy meat, and he lets me go long enough for me to almost dart out of reach before he grabs me again with both hands this time, trying to pin my arms. I kick at his shins, his knees, anywhere I can reach.
My foot connects with something and he staggers slightly.
I twist around, squirming free again as I put distance between us, his hand clasping my wrist before I can get too far. I see the bronze sculpture on the edge of the desk, the piece I was cataloging earlier. It's to my right, heavy and solid and within reach.
He's pulling me toward him, spitting out something in Russian that sounds like a threat or a curse. The air is thick with sweat and fear. I see blood on his face from where I clawed him, and fury in his eyes. He’s going to hurt me before he takes me to wherever I’m supposed to go…
or maybe he’s just going to kill me here.
I lurch toward the sculpture, feeling something wrench in my wrist, and grab desperately for it.
It's heavier than I remembered, the weight of it solid and real in my hand. He sees what I'm doing, his eyes widening, and he tries to grab my other wrist. But I'm already swinging.
The bronze connects with his skull with a sound I'll never forget: a wet, sickening crack that seems impossibly loud in the small room.
Nausea roils through me as he staggers, blood streaming from one side of his head, the white of his left eyeball going red.
His grip loosens and his eyes are unfocused, confused.
I hit him again.
This time he goes down, his knees buckling and his body crumpling to the floor.
Blood is spreading across the concrete, dark and viscous, pooling beneath his head.
I swing harder, again, watching his skull cave in as I grip the sculpture with sweaty hands, my arms shaking and my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything except stare at what I've just done.
He's not moving. His eyes are open but unseeing, staring at nothing. The blood keeps spreading, a dark halo around his head. I can see something glossy and grey through the cracked bone of his skull.
I killed him.
The thought comes slowly, like my brain is filled with a thick, hazy fog. I just killed someone.
The sculpture slips from my hands, clattering to the floor with a sound that makes me flinch. I look down at myself and see blood on my hands, on my clothes, spattered across my arms.
His blood.
I start to shake. My whole body trembling so violently I can barely stand. My legs feel like they might give out at any moment.
I should call someone. The police. An ambulance. Someone.
But he's dead. I can see that he's dead. There's so much blood, and he's not breathing, and his eyes are just staring at nothing.
I killed him.
Why was he here? Who was he? What did he mean about Sorokov, about me being a target? Who the fuck is Sergei?
My mind is racing but can't seem to land on any one coherent thought for long. I'm in shock, I realize distantly. This is what shock feels like.
I need to move. Need to do something. But I can't make my body obey.
I start to back away from the body, my eyes locked on it, unable to look away from the dead man in the middle of my gallery's back room. The blood is still spreading. It's reached the leg of the work table now, a dark tide that seems to move in slow motion.
The sound of the front door opening is the thing that drives me into action again. I spin around, my heart racing, and terror floods through me. He has backup. Of course he has backup…
I grab for the sculpture, my fingers struggling to grip it through the film of blood and sweat on the bronze. It feels so much heavier than it did a moment ago, so much harder to hold all on my own…
A figure appears in the doorway.
I.S.
Sorokov.