Chapter 30 Matei
MATEI
Iswing at the nearest shadow, my fist connecting with something solid, but the satisfaction lasts less than a second before the world doubles.
Two men.
No, one.
Two again.
My brain can't decide. I shake my head, but everything is fuzzy.
Another fist slams into my jaw, snapping my head sideways. The taste of copper floods my mouth. I spit, but more blood wells up immediately, pooling under my tongue.
I throw another punch. It hits air, and I stumble, my knees hitting the pavement.
I try to push myself up, but a boot catches me in the ribs. Air leaves my lungs, leaving me gasping.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't...
Jordan.
My head jerks up, searching through the blur of people and headlights. She's there, kneeling on the ground. Not moving.
Why isn't she moving?
"Jordan!" I yell, but it comes out wrong, garbled, like I'm screaming underwater.
A knee or a foot drives into me, forcing me flat against the street, my cheek pressing against the cold, gritty surface.
I reach out, my fingers stretching toward her motionless form. She's too far.
Did they hurt her? Did they...
The thought shatters as another boot connects with my skull.
White light explodes behind my eyes. The world tilts like I'm spinning, even though I'm on the ground.
I can't tell which way is which. Can't tell if I'm still conscious or if this is what dying feels like.
My gun.
Where's my fucking gun?
I pat the ground blindly, my fingers scraping over broken glass and debris. It's gone. Even if I found it, my hands won't close properly. My fingers twitch uselessly, numb and clumsy.
Another kick. This one to my stomach.
I fold in on myself as blood splashes onto the pavement beneath my face. The pain is everywhere now, radiating through my body in waves that make it impossible to pinpoint any single injury.
They're going to beat me to death.
This is what the Bulgarians do. They don't shoot you clean and leave. They beat you until you're pulp, until your own mother wouldn't recognize you, and they leave your broken body as a message.
But I can't think about that.
Jordan. I need to see Jordan.
I force my eyes open, blinking through the blood running into them. She's still there, her emerald dress pooling around her. A man is holding onto her arm as if she'll fall over.
Is she breathing?
I can't tell from here.
A fist crashes into my temple. Stars burst across my vision, bright and nauseating. The world goes black for a moment, then flickers back like a dying bulb.
Voices filter through the chaos. They're speaking in Bulgarian, and I try to catch fragments but can't form any cohesive thought about what they're saying.
My vision tunnels. The edges go dark, creeping inward until all I can see is Jordan's face, pale in the headlights.
Another kick lands somewhere on my body. I barely feel it now. The pain has become white noise, a constant roar that drowns out everything else.
I cough. Blood sprays from my lips. I'm drowning in it.
Get up. Get the fuck up.
I try. God, I try. But my arms won't cooperate. They shake violently when I press my palms to the ground, buckling under my weight.
"Matei!"
It's Jordan's voice, I think, or am I imagining it? Shit. Either way, it's gone, replaced by engines revving, doors slamming, shouting in that language I can't decipher through the fog in my head.
They're leaving.
I force my eyes open again, fighting against the weight trying to pull them closed. The men are moving away, and they're taking her.
I reach out again, my arm extended across the pavement. Blood drips from my fingertips.
It looks like she goes limp in their arms. The emerald dress drags on the ground, and one of her shoes is missing.
I try to move, but I can't.
I stare up at the sky.
Stars decorate the night sky as blood fills my mouth again. I turn my head and spit, watching it splatter dark against the pale concrete.
My chest heaves with the effort of breathing. Each inhale brings fresh agony.
God.
Growing up Romanian, religion is forced down your throat, but I haven't prayed since I was a child, since before I understood what my family really was. Since before I learned that men like me don't get to ask for mercy.
But I ask now.
Please.
The word forms in my mind.
Please let me survive this.
I need to live. Need to find her. Need to make them pay.
But know this. If you allow me to survive, I will bring Satan's hell to this earth.
I mean it. Every fucking word.
I will kill everyone involved in taking her.
The territory doesn't matter anymore. The expansion, the Siberian Ice, the power plays with the Bulgarians and Russians, none of it matters.
The mission has changed.
Jordan is my mission now.
Getting her back. Making them scream. Watching the light leave their eyes as I take everything from them the way they've taken everything from me.
My vision starts to blur again, darkness creeping in from the edges. I fight it, but exhaustion pulls at me.
Then I hear it.
Tires screeching, car doors flying open, footsteps.
"Matei!"
Adrian's voice cuts through the haze.
I try to answer. Try to tell him to go after them, to save her, to do something, but nothing comes out except another wet cough.
"Matei! MATEI!"
His hands grab my shoulders, rough and panicked. Adrian never panics.
"Brother, look at me!" Adrian's face swims into view above me, pale and twisted with something I've never seen on him before. Fear. "Stay with me!"
I try to focus on his face, but there are two of him. Three. They keep multiplying and sliding apart and back together.
"Get him in the fucking car, now!" Adrian's voice breaks, and then he looks down at me. "Stay with me. You're not dying."
More voices now. My men surround me.
My eyes drift closed despite Adrian's frantic demands to keep them open.
The last thing I feel is his hand gripping mine, crushing my fingers hard enough to hurt.
The last thing I think is her name.
Jordan.
And then there's nothing but the void, pulling me down into its depths with the single, burning promise still blazing in what's left of my consciousness:
I will find you. I will kill them all. And I will get you back.
No matter what it costs.
No matter how much blood I have to spill.
No matter if I have to burn this entire fucking city to the ground.
The darkness takes me, but the rage stays lit, waiting to ignite into an inferno.