Chapter 38
CLARA
The zip ties around my wrists bite into my skin, leaving angry red marks.
Dean never took me seriously, from my job to our future together to simply me as a person.
And he certainly never realized that when Emily and I took a self-defense course together, it meant we learned how to get out of situations like this.
Not that I ever thought I'd have to do this in real life; I've only done it in class under the guidance of an instructor and with a bunch of women cheering me on.
First, the anchor. The radiator itself is old cast iron, bolted to the floor of this decaying Brooklyn building that might have been a bed-and-breakfast or hotel at some point in the distant past. But the pipe I'm tied to is thin, brittle, and rust-eaten.
It runs vertically behind the actual unit, barely supporting the valve's weight, let alone the frantic pulling of a pregnant woman running on sheer adrenaline.
I ignore the throbbing in my head and the reminder that I'm not supposed to lift heavy things. But if I don't do this, I will die. No matter what Dean believes, I know Andrey will not let me live.
I need to focus. Focus for the baby. Focus for Dmitri.
Focus for myself. I need to save this child I don't know yet but is already a part of my heart.
I need to do this for Dmitri, so I can warn him about what Andrey plans to do and explain to him that I did not betray him.
I need to do this for myself because I want to live, I want to be a mom.
I shift my weight, a slow, agonizing slide toward the wall that causes the pipe to creak.
It's a deep, ominous groan that sounds impossibly loud in the room's silence.
I don't know where Dean is, but I hope he's preoccupied and can't hear what I'm doing.
I heard him stomping down the stairs, and he hasn't stomped back up.
I continue to pull in short, forceful bursts. My shoulders scream with each jerk, and a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. I stop to rest, rubbing my forehead against my shoulder to get rid of the sweat as I sit there, listening. Still nothing from Dean. Good.
I gather my resolve, take a deep breath, and pull again, this time putting all of my strength, all of my anger, all of my fear behind it.
The pipe gives way with a screech—like fingernails across a chalkboard.
The valve separates from the main line, showering my hands, face, and hair with decades of powdered rust and cold, stale air.
Next I focus on the zip ties. When I finally get my hands and wrists free, I sit quietly and listen. I can hear voices coming from the floor below, and Dean still hasn't come back upstairs.
The single window in the room is ancient and sash-style.
I bash at the rusted lock. It’s covered with dust and dirt, and I can barely see the dark alleyway and rusted fire escape outside.
I struggle with the warped, heavy sash, putting all of my weight into it.
I groan as I finally manage to push it up halfway before it slides into the frame with a shuddering rattle.
My heart leaps into my throat. God, I hope they didn’t hear it.
For a horrifying moment, I think I'm going to be unable to fit through the opening, but somehow I do.
The fire escape is wobbly, but it holds when I put an experimental foot on it.
From the platform, I grip the rungs of the ladder, so frozen beneath my hands it hurts, and start down.
Each step requires a deep breath and a prayer that it doesn't give way or pull away from the old brick wall.
Each rung is icy, and I negotiate it carefully, my heart hammering in my chest.
To distract myself, I count, each step a little bit closer to the ground and my freedom. I just have to keep moving.
A noise above makes me jerk my head up. Dean is leaning half outside the window, glaring down at me. My heart gives a great thump and speeds up like a runaway freight train.
“Clara! Stop! Don't you dare fucking try to run!” His voice is raw, desperate, and angry, shattering the snowy quiet of the alley and echoing off the brick around us.
I don't stop. I go faster, as fast as I possibly can, reaching the bottom landing, where I leap onto the drop ladder, landing with a deafening crash on the asphalt. I don't wait to catch my breath. I turn and run.
Snow crunches under my shoes and coats my eyelashes, making it difficult to see. I run blindly, fueled by pure terror and the sound of Dean's rage-filled shouts behind me, followed by the sound of the emergency door being violently kicked open.
My lungs are burning as I burst out of the alley onto a dimly lit street. I grip my stomach, as though that will somehow keep the baby safe, making running awkward.
I take a sharp turn onto a broader, emptier avenue, the sound of Dean's heavy footsteps closing the distance between us. I nearly slip and fall and have to reach out to the wall as I round the corner. Dean's faster than I am, unhindered by fear, fatigue, or pregnancy.
He's going to catch me. I can't let him catch me.
The words echo in my head over and over again as a terrifying mantra.
Suddenly, a figure steps out of the shadows, and I have to grab for the wall again before I pitch forward and slip on the slick ground. For a beat, I wonder how the hell Dean got in front of me, and then I realize it's not Dean—it's worse.
Andrey.
He's dressed in a meticulously tailored suit and dark wool overcoat. He stands in the middle of the sidewalk, his expression one of detached annoyance.
I try to turn and run the other way. But before I can take another step, his hand shoots out lightning-fast and grabs my arm. His grip is iron, instantly bruising, and he yanks me back. He keeps his grip on my arm as he leads me toward the warehouse entrance.
“Running, Ms. Benson? It’s really quite stupid to think you can escape me.” He looks at me with a flat, deadly expression. I was afraid when I was alone with Dean, but now I'm terrified. It’s like just being near this man envelops me in death's darkness.
“Let go of me!” I struggle, kicking and thrashing, but I'm no match for his strength.
“I have business, Ms. Benson, and it requires your attendance.”
When we get to the warehouse, Andrey kicks the door open, then kicks it shut with a crash that echoes in the silent corridor, where Dean stands waiting. He's breathless, gun drawn, but he hesitates when he sees Andrey is holding me.
“What the hell, Andrey? I had her.”
Andrey shoves me roughly in Dean's direction, and I stumble against the wall, which feels rough beneath my hands. I freeze when I turn back around. Andrey's gun, a gleaming black automatic, is fully trained on me.
“The next time she runs, Detective,” Andrey says with a sneer, “you put a bullet in her leg. Do you understand? We need her alive—for now.”
“No, that wasn't part of the deal,” Dean protests. “I said no hurting her.” His eyes desperately seek mine. “Clara, I'm sorry. Just stay put. Stay where you are. I'll handle this. I'm doing this for us. I'm saving you.”
Andrey laughs, a horrifying sound. “You really think you're going to get your little fantasy, Detective?” Andrey addresses him with chilling condescension. “You think you get to keep the prize at the end? That when Dmitri Smirnov falls, you’ll ride his pregnant whore right off into the sunset? I don’t think so. ”
“What?” Dean's face goes slack with confusion, then tightens with dawning horror. “No, she's mine. You promised me the money and Clara, if I helped you get Smirnov. Clara comes with me.”
Andrey tilts his head, a gesture of almost theatrical pity.
“You are a pathetic fool, Detective Johnson.” The air seems to drop ten degrees.
Andrey's eyes, fixed on Dean, are utterly devoid of anything human.
“To destroy Dmitri Smirnov, I must take what he loves the most, just like I did with his wife and child the first time. I want to watch the life drain from his eyes when I kill this woman and his second unborn child. I want to watch his world crumble as I take everything he cares about from him in the way he deserves.”
It feels as if the floor is falling out from under me, dropping away and leaving me tumbling into a black abyss of horror.
I’m not here just as leverage; I’m here to continue a decade-old revenge plot.
I wrap my arms around myself and take a step away, as though I can escape the sociopath standing in front of me, but I’m pressed firmly against the wall, erasing any hope of getting away.
Horror finally overwhelms Dean’s delusion. “You sick, fucking bastard. That wasn’t the deal. You said we were taking him down clean, that I would bring him in and clear the way for you. You’re not going to touch a hair on Clara’s head.”
Dean’s face twists into anger, but I can tell he still doesn’t grasp the situation.
He still thinks he has some say in any of this, that he’s the one in charge, the one calling the shots.
But I know he gave that privilege away the moment he agreed to work with Andrey, if he ever had it to begin with.
Andrey’s bored expression doesn’t change. “You were nothing more than a tool, Dean, a useful, yet disposable, tool. I don’t do deals, Detective.”
Dean growls and raises his weapon. “You’re going to do what I say, or I will arrest you and make sure you spend the rest of your days behind bars.”
“And what about you, Detective Johnson? Won’t you be signing your own arrest warrant?”
Faster than I can track, Andrey’s hand moves in smooth, practiced violence.
Bang.
I never even saw him aim the gun at Dean.
Dean doesn’t scream. He grunts and stumbles back, clutching his stomach. A dark, crimson stain starts as a dot on his shirt, spreading quickly until the blood is seeping through his fingers. I watch as a drip falls to the floor, then another, and another.
His gun clatters uselessly to the floor as he collapses against the wall, slowly sliding down. His eyes, wide and filled with stunned incomprehension, fix on me for a final, desperate moment before glazing over.
I’m still staring at Dean, my mind blank and in shock, when I detect movement out of the corner of my eye.
“On second thought, let’s just get this over with, Ms. Benson. This is how I break Dmitri Smirnov.”
I stare down the barrel of the gun, my mind clearing entirely. The fear has become sharp, focused, and I’m not paralyzed anymore. My hand flies instinctively to my stomach, and in that instant, there is only one truth: My child is not dying here.
“Dmitri will kill you.”
“Oh, he’ll try.” His finger tightens on the trigger. “But he won’t succeed. His end is coming, too, Ms. Benson, and I’m the one who is delivering it to him.”
Andrey smiles, cold and empty.
“Goodbye, Clara.”
I’m moving before my brain registers what I’m doing.