12. Vanya
12
VANYA
A soft static scratch wakes me.
Slowly, I stir from a deep sleep, the deepest I have had in a long time. A deep breath reminds me why.
His scent fills my head, faint cologne. Our sweat and sex still on us.
Images play through my mind, rousing me again, making me smile. I will always want more…
Glancing at the window, it’s dark. Not a sound reaches us on the third floor. No traffic. Must be the middle of the night.
I stretch languidly, running my hand down Ciro’s smooth stomach. I feel the slow rise and fall of his breath.
He is still sound asleep.
Yet when I reach the edge of the sheet draped across him, he is certainly awake in one way. I am just contemplating sliding that magnificent column into my mouth when I hear the scratching sound again.
“Shit,” I hiss, flipping over and off the bed.
Radio.
Scrambling for my phone, I swipe it open. No messages. Signal is still down.
“Van?” Ciro mumbles as I dash to the kitchen through the hallway, reaching the shortwave, turning up the dial.
Low static.
Then a click.
Another.
Changing the station, I wait. Another click. A pattern. Sent periodically by automated signal to inform us which station to listen to for emergency.
Three changes later I stop, catching the last of a few words. Ciro rests his hands on my shoulders as he joins me, pulling me back to lean against him as I sit in front of the speaker.
The message in Russian starts again.
“Overrun at checkpoint five. Checkpoint six. All sectors compromised. Await orders. Pakhan protocols enacted. Await orders. Remain hidden. Enemy at large.”
It cuts out, another break.
But I have heard enough.
“How did this happen? Without any warning. Like they knew exactly where and when to strike.”
“The Volk are too strong for that. There’s no way these guys wipe us out,” Ciro reassures me, holding me close. “Besides, the other chapters of Volk will come running once we get a message out. They won’t stand for this.”
“Neither will our Rivals.”
“The others…they’ll support you?”
“In a situation like this, on our soil, in our homeland? Yes. All feuds are cast aside when an outsider makes a move in Motherland.”
“Good. Then we just need to get out of town. Just enough to make a call.”
“Not before I see the compound. The house. I need to know Matvey is safe.”
“He’s probably holed up in one of these houses just like us, bitching about not having cable TV.”
I want to smile, to appreciate his words and his attempt at calming me. But a sick feeling swims in my gut.
Something is terribly wrong.
“You are probably right. Still, I need to know. And if we can find a clue as to who these menaces are, even better.”
“I’m down to kill a couple. And of course, keep one for you to torture.”
“Thank you, Ciro.”
“Anything you need. I have your back.”
I am equally grateful that he did not try to tell me to stay here, to play it safe. He knows me better than that.
“There are guns, clean clothes.”
“Uh, great. We’ll get right to it.” He glances to the side, then down at himself. Then me. “Or, we could, you know, eat, shower, plan.”
Snorting lightly, I shove him out of the way, heading for the bathroom.
“Saves time if we shower together, da ?”
“ Da . Very da .” Ciro rushes to follow, looking like a sweet fool running totally naked through the apartment.
The shower is quick, rough, hot. And the water is too.
Ciro throws together a meal from what the safe house has in the pantry. Mostly MRE. Simple. Filling. He even does me the favor of keeping his thoughts to himself about the taste, even as he makes faces stuffing it down.
Big baby.
Because my thoughts are solely on my family. On this outrageous attack.
The sudden appearance of a foreign power.
A massive deployment of private troops. And zero response from the military, the police. Someone with a lot of money, then.
It all seems impossible.
Only slightly more impossible than what the man standing next to me as we exit the safe house a couple of hours later just did to me so many times earlier. And again in the shower.
No one has ever…
Shaking my head in the cold, I head off toward the street. I must stay focused.
Leading the way back to the garage I almost step out from the dark sidewalk to the orange of the streetlamp when I hear a sound.
“Ssst.” Ciro barely makes a noise, but in the dead of night it makes me freeze, glancing around. He points ahead, to the left. Then raises three fingers.
My eyes widen, mostly in irritation.
Here too?
They must be all over town. And they must have some sense of where our safe houses are if they are so close to us.
Ciro shrugs, waiting for me to make a call.
Gesturing with two fingers, I wave us on, heading a different direction. We slink through the darker alleys, passing one or two more pairs of infiltrators. Soon, we reach a smaller neighborhood. Quiet. Mostly cottages.
“No sign of them.”
“I figured. They must have gotten some intel, but no maps.” Otherwise our little tryst might have been interrupted.
“Just our shit luck that they posted up right by our ride.”
“It’s fine. We steal car.”
“Oh. Works for me. A little Faust and the Furious?”
“Faust was German.”
“Ah, shit. You’re not German?”
“You’re not Greek?”
“Ooo, them’s fightin’ words.”
“Shut up and break into this car. Assuming you know how?” I raise one eyebrow.
“Ohoho, please. What kind of lifelong criminal and mobster would I be if I couldn’t? I stole my first car at twelve.”
“Ah, so you got late start. Let me to do it for you. It is easy.”
Ciro doubles over laughing, covering his mouth. I press my lips together to keep from joining in. He really is contagious.
Or I am a stupid fawning girl.
“Light,” I snap.
“Here. Now please, show me your magical ways, princess.”
“Like this, see?” I sniff, pretending to pop the lock and opening the door. “Magic.”
“Ten points to Gryffin?—”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“And I am no princess. I am queen.”
“My mistake. You wouldn’t happen to need a king, would you?”
“Hm. Perhaps a serf to drive me back to my castle.”
“I’m starting a rebellion, so hard pass.” He grins, dodging my fist. “You know the streets better. And apparently, which neighborhoods people leave their car doors unlocked.”
He mutters the last bit, circling the old gray four-banger.
His lighthearted chatter helps me keep from spiraling as we make our way back toward the Volk center of power. Until we reach the first outpost, finding it occupied by a couple of invaders.
From there, we keep the lights off, taking side streets.
Ciro is right. I know the city better than anyone.
And my city is scared. Dead silent. Holding its breath.
Like its protectors suddenly went missing.
As we cross the heart of town, still far from our compound, I sense the presence of the enemy. The citizens watch us drive by through closed curtains. It’s more than unsettling.
It’s poison. Eating at my soul.
My blood is pumping in my ears by the time we get near the compound. It’s that tense sort of quiet stress. Like when you are creeping up on an opponent. Trying to surprise them.
Waiting to be discovered suddenly.
Another outpost, the closest to the house, and I am starting to unwind.
“These men, they were supposed to go off duty at midnight. Relief should have come.” I follow the logic, my mouth drying out. If they did not get backup, or reinforcements…
Panic rears its head in my chest.
“Hey, don’t think the worst yet,” Ciro says. “We’re almost there. No signs of any more goons. We’ll find Matvey, get a radio or whatever and?—”
“Shh!” I hold up my hand, opening my door and easing out.
I have a better idea.
And Ciro follows my lead, shuffling around to my six.
A single man stands leaning against the wall in the alley leading to the office we keep above the pool hall, his arms folded tightly against the cold. They do not look prepared for our weather. He is alone, left to guard the dead.
Or to wait for someone like me. I let him spot me, pulling my hoodie around my face and walking like a defenseless woman clutching her purse. He rises, striding toward the street with a dark look on his face.
But he does not see Ciro coming behind him.
My Shakal takes him behind the knee, dropping him and looping a chord about his neck.
“Gentle. I need him to be able to speak,” I implore, sauntering up to them and lowering my hood.
Immediately the man scowls, trying to spit at my feet. He raises his nose, even as Ciro tightens the chord.
“Hm. Interesting. I take it you do not respect women where you come from?”
No answer. Ciro’s lips peel back in a vicious grin, but I hold up a hand. A flick of my fingers and he releases the man to drop down, coughing. Right before he lunges at me.
Just like I wanted.
I use his momentum against him, curling my hands around his, snapping both of his thumbs and yanking down. The fucker flops to his ass, writhing, a wheezing squeal of pain barely clearing his swollen throat. Or maybe he cannot make a sound because of the pain?
Crouching, his broken thumbs still in my grasp, I lean in close. “Do you speak Russian? English?”
“F-fuck you, bitch!” he chokes out in broken English.
“English then.”
Ciro sniffs, looming over us like an omen of death, only his grin visible through the shadows.
The man shudders as he looks up, immediately looking back down, shaken.
“And more scared of him than me. Foolish. Tell me…where are you from? Who are you?”
“My nem eez…fuck you!”
I let out a sigh, smiling and nodding. Right before I jam my hand into his crotch, gripping him by the balls and pressing my dagger against his bulge. He sits up straight, whimpering.
“Listen closely to me. I will castrate you if you do not tell me,” I whisper, my voice hollow and frigid. “Where?”
“M-Morocco.”
“Anything else?”
“They will kill!” he forces out, anger and fear filling his face.
“So will he.” I retort, standing. Waving a hand in dismissal, I walk away. Behind me, I hear the snap of his neck.
“He might have said more.”
“Doesn’t matter. We have a location. That means our fears might be true. We will find someone higher up and interrogate them next. Make sure it is the Mocro.” But I really just want to get home.
We stop the car around the corner, approaching on foot. When we reach the house, I realize just how wrong everything really is. The guard station up front is empty. The gate hangs open.
Ciro readies his weapon, taking a tactical stance and nodding. With a slight shake of my head, I signal him forward, to go in first. It’s the smart thing to do. He is stronger, and I am a better shot.
Inside, the grounds are a mess.
Fires burn here and there, cars smoldering.
No sign of a single Volk.
We creep through the smoke and fog of the early morning, silently scanning the outer buildings. Nothing. Even when we head up the main drive, there’s very little going on. The barracks seem to be vacant. No one’s on the premises.
So we circle inward, toward the main house. Where things are much, much worse. The whole place is trashed, windows broken, bullet holes and grenade blasts.
Then I see bodies. Piles of them. The invaders. Our men.
“They had a standoff here,” Ciro whispers, his eyes tight, focused. He is like ice. And I am grateful. I need him to be my rock.
“We need to get inside,” I start, but a clatter stops us in our tracks. Ciro flicks his fingers to the left and rushes for cover.
Right as a half dozen men in dark coats come around the corner, muttering in low voices. What I can make out is not Russian. Each of them carries a bag or a pile of junk, poking through the wreckage as they walk.
I charge without hesitation.
“Hey!” One of the men looks up in time to take my knife in his throat.
But these guys are fairly well-trained. They fan out in a second, one of them backs off to run for help.
Ciro is a ghost out in the dark, making him vanish with nothing but a sharp scream. It echoes, making the rest frantically look around, waiting for an attack.
“Yes, it is a devil in the dark, come to seek vengeance. You think you can come into our city, our ports and just fucking take over?” I snarl, lashing out at the first one to go for his gun, slashing his hand.
The circle widens for a second, then they rush me.
I give them a prize for bravery. But they lose points for stupidity.
Disarming one with a twist of his gun, I pistol whip him with his own weapon, letting him fall back and using the opening to spin. My boot connects with a body, right as the two to my left hit the ground, knives jutting from their backs and a wild-eyed Ciro kneeling on top of them. The one on the right balks at the sight, the one I just kicked stumbling into him.
We stalk in as they tumble to the ground, scrambling. Like we were meant to hunt together. Our movements in perfect sync.
He is the balance of me.
Equally brutal. Possibly even more deadly.
As one, we pause, waiting for the two men to rise. They do, drawing those knives with the strange symbol we saw before.
Ciro offers me his hand. Palm up, and I take it.
He flings me into a spin as they charge, right between them, ducking down and swooping for their legs. Both leap, clearing my kick, blades aimed for Ciro. He deflects both, spearing hard fingers into one wrist, flinging the knife into the dark.
I’m there in an instant, slashing the gawking bastard’s throat out.
Our dance is precise, rhythmic. And they don’t hear our music. But I do.
Stepping out, Ciro dodges another attack, reaching for me, tugging me in his wake to parry the blade with mine. Rebounding from the momentum, he launches me over the man’s head, slapping his swinging arms out wide, keeping him from grabbing me.
I land lightly, spinning and taking his head from his shoulders.
Then Ciro is there, lifting me, twirling me. Just in time to miss the patter of bullets that hit the spot I was just standing.
His hands at my waist are searing fire, even in such dire circumstances. He makes me rage. Gets my adrenaline pumping.
Spotting the shooter, we split, sprinting to flank.
I see the figure, backlit in fire ahead. He is mine. His gun rises to take aim at me, he has me dead to rights.
Until I hear Ciro roar and the shooter’s head flips to the side. In the firelight I see the mask reflecting the glow.
The knife is gone from my hand before I realize it, flying toward the masked man.
At the last second, he raises his arm, taking the blade in the forearm and stumbling into the dark. Ciro darts after him. I start to run, feel the sting in my side. The pain forces me to my knees.
A few moments later, Ciro returns stalking back toward me with a closed expression.
“He got away again?”
“Like a fucking ninja,” Ciro spits, cursing. “You okay?”
“Fine. Took a hit to my side.” I shove his hand away before he can find the blood streaming under my jacket. It went straight through. Minimal damage.
Turning toward the house, we throw caution to the wind, storming up the steps and through the doorway. Inside, the rooms are ransacked, smashed to pieces.
“Pyotr?” I call softly down the hall.
Ciro splits off, clearing the other rooms.
He is just rejoining me downstairs, heading to Pyotr’s office when I freeze.
I cannot breathe as I see his body, covered in blood. My legs give out and distantly, I feel Ciro catch me. He helps me to Matvey’s side, propped up against our Papa’s desk.
I cannot cry.
I will not.
But my hand is on his face, and he is so cold…
“Van, he has a pulse. Barely.” Ciro’s words don’t register until Mat’s eyes twitch, flutter open. I know it is not good news, however. Ciro’s tone says it all. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him inspect my brother’s wounds. I see him bite down on the inside of his cheek hard, his eyes watering.
Still, I smile.
And Matvey tries to return it, the angel that he is.
“Van…am I dreaming?”
“ Net , Matvey. I am here.”
“ Klassno ,” he mumbles, his eyes distant. “I fought hard, sestrenka . You would be proud.”
His words are faint, slurred.
“I am proud, little brother.”
“Now I know you are fucking with me…” The soft huff of laughter shakes his chest, makes him cough. I pretend not to notice the hint of blood at his lips.
“Only because I took out twice as many.” I sniffle, hiding it with a tight smile.
“I bet Ciro beat both of us, ah? Is he…where is he?”
“Right here, Matty.” Ciro chokes, taking my brother’s soot and bloodstained hand.
“ Da , da . You are my brother, man, you know?”
“I am. Forever.”
“Now you take care of Vanya. She say she does not need…but she need…you,” he whispers, his breath coming in gasps.
“She needs you, Matty. Just hang on. We…we can…” Ciro’s jaw clenches.
“You lost your twin, brat . You are two of a kind.”
My heart implodes. My world crumbles.
And I cannot speak. I simply hold my brother’s face as the light fades.
“Mama will be pissed that I was out so late…Papa will…” Mat’s gaze focuses for a split second. He grasps my hand. “Papa…”
“It’s alright, Mat,” I sing softly.
“No, no. Pyotr. They took him.”
“Who?”
“H-him…” Mat’s hand guides mine into the blood on his chest. To the floor.
Where he scrawls a symbol.
Then he pulls my hand close. Kisses my fingers.
And he is gone.