Chapter 34
Alexei
Smoke plumes up from the wreckage, and my heart starts hammering. "No, no, no. Please be okay," I whisper, the words catching in my throat before I turn to Paul. "Drive faster! Just go! They just crashed!"
We haven't even fully skidded to a halt before I’m yanking the door open. I hit the ground running. I’ve never moved this fast in my life, but the sheer panic of what I might find keeps my legs moving.
I reach the wreck and grab the door handle, praying as I pull. It gives way without much resistance, swinging wide to reveal her. She’s still strapped in, held upright by the seatbelt. I fumble with the clip, get her loose, and carefully ease her out of the seat.
Once she’s clear of the car, I start checking her over, my hands shaking. There’s a deep split in her lip where the glass must have caught her as the car spun, but I don't see any other blood. My stomach drops. If she isn't bleeding out, why isn't she opening her eyes?
I glance back into the car at the three who were with her. They’re awake, staring back at me with wide, glassy eyes, completely paralyzed by shock. Paul reaches us then, stepping past me to start pulling them out.
I look toward the front. Lev is thrown halfway through the windshield, and Georgie is slumped in the passenger seat at an angle that looks all wrong. Out of everyone, they’re the ones who took the worst of it.
"Bohdan! Get the medic!"
Gunfire erupts behind me - my men sweeping the site to finish off the Georgians who stayed behind to fight. I’m focused on the medic as he drops beside her, checking her pulse and prying her eyes open to catch the beam of his light.
"Seems she only hit her head," the medic grunts, his voice barely cutting through the ringing in my ears. "Don’t worry, sir, it’s just a mild concussion and nothing serious. But we still need to take her for a check-up in case of internal bleeding."
"She’s stable?" I rasp.
"She’s holding steady," he says, already reaching for his bag. "But we need a hospital. Now."
I heave a sigh of relief at his words. "What about the others?" I ask, scanning the wreckage.
Across the debris, Paul is hauling bodies from the wreck. Larisa and Yulia are upright, shaking and sobbing through a mask of dust and minor cuts. Yegor is awake, too, cradling his arm against his chest, terrified to even breathe in case it shifts the bone.
But my eyes shift to the front of the car, where Lev and Grigori are still pinned.
Paul’s voice breaks through the ringing in my ears. “It’s bad, Pakhan. Both of them are unconscious and losing too much blood - we have to move fast before they die.”
“Then get the stretchers and get them in!”
The scene turns into a blur of controlled chaos.
They load Lev and Grigori first, the smell of copper and ozone hanging thick in the air as they start IVs.
They’re in rough shape. Then they reach Zoya.
She’s still dead to the world, but her chest rises and falls in a steady, reassuring rhythm.
I climb into the back of the ambulance with her, the metal floor vibrating under my boots.
"Pakhan," Bohdan says, leaning into the doorway. "The Georgians are being taken care of. From what we could tell from Mrs. Zoya's listening device, she called for help from Kostya, but he left her for dead. So, sir, what do we do with him - we suspect he might be working with the Georgians.”
I take a deep breath before answering.
"Kill anyone still breathing," I snap, not looking away from her face. "Then find Kostya. That little shit left her to die. I want him brought to me."
"Yes, Pakhan."
The doors slam shut, cutting off the sound of the world. I sit on the narrow bench beside Zoya and take her hand. She’s too pale, the small cut on her forehead a stark red mark against her skin. It’s stopped bleeding, but the silence between us is heavy.
"You’re going to be okay," I whisper, as much for myself as for her. "It’s just a concussion. You’re fine."
The sirens scream as we tear through the city streets. At the hospital, the doors fly open, and the team splits - Lev and Grigori are wheeled straight toward surgery while Zoya is pushed into a quiet examination room.
"It’s a mild concussion," the doctor confirms after a tense few minutes of checking her vitals.
He works with a practiced, steady hand, applying a butterfly bandage to the cut on her forehead before looking up at me.
"She has some bruising, but she should wake up soon, so we’ll keep her here for observation to be safe. "
"How soon?" I demand, my voice echoing in the small, quiet room.
"It could be minutes, or it could be a few hours, because concussions are unpredictable by nature," he says, stepping back to let the nurses move in.
They wheel her into a private suite, the soft beep of the heart monitor filling the silence as they hook her up to the machines. I pull a chair to the edge of the bed and take her hand. “Please wake up, Vedma.”