Chapter 24 Misha #2
I wait for his reload, count the seconds, then break cover with my Makarov extended. Two shots hit him center mass before he staggers backward, surprise replacing aggression on his face before he crumples beside a rust-stained Honda.
The stairwell erupts with automatic fire. A voice cuts through the chaos, "Man down! Thom is down!"
Gregor responds immediately. "Moving to assist!"
But the third gunman breaks from cover, sprinting toward our position with an AK-47 braced against his shoulder. Full-auto fire rakes our concrete shelter, sparks flying as steel-core rounds fragment against stone.
I grab Vera's hand and pull her toward the maintenance ramp, staying low while bullets chew the air above our heads. The decoy bag spills open, leaving fake currency fluttering to the filthy concrete.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder by the second. Moscow authorities respond fast when automatic weapons start speaking in public places.
"This way!" I push Vera down the ramp toward the lower parking level.
More gunfire from behind us, Gregor's rifle answering the AK's chatter. Good man, buying us time while we escape the killing ground. This isn't going as planned.
I rush her toward my car with its keys still waiting in the ignition, and I hear the squeal of tires in the level above us.
"Get in," I tell Vera.
The engine turns over and I reverse hard, tires screaming on pavement, then slam the transmission into drive.
The exit ramp beckons ahead, offering the only passage to safety.
We roar down the ramp and onto street level as police sirens converge from multiple directions.
Blue lights flash through the darkness, painting building facades in stuttering illumination.
In the rearview mirror, I catch glimpses of the parking structure—muzzle flashes still visible through the gaps, shadows moving between levels. Gregor holds his position, covering our escape.
We merge into traffic, anonymous among thousands of other vehicles navigating Moscow's evening rush. I watch our six, taking random turns, doubling back through side streets to make sure we're not being followed while my pulse hammers in my head. Nikolai is going to kill me.
Vera sits rigidly in the passenger seat, staring at the blood on her wrist. The cut looks superficial, probably from concrete fragments, but she watches the red stain spread with the fascination of someone seeing their own mortality for the first time.
"You're alive," I tell her.
She nods without speaking, shock stealing her voice. I wish there were a way for me to reassure her, but I can't. There's not really a way for me to put any hope into certain terms for her. We're fucked, and I have to stop and think about how to regroup.
Twenty minutes later, I park outside the Kosmos Motor Inn. It promises anonymity at hourly rates. The neon sign flickers between Russian and English, announcing in bright pink letters that they have a vacancy.
Inside, a desk clerk with prison tattoos barely glances up as I slide cash across the stained Formica countertop. He hands me a key without asking for identification, understanding that some guests prefer invisibility, and tonight, I'm grateful these sorts of places still exist.
When I return to get Vera from the car, she's crying, still terrified. I lead her to room 247 and she sits on the bed and finally speaks. "They came to kill me."
"They came to kill us both."
"The man you shot—his eyes were already empty before you pulled the trigger." She shakes her head and her jaw drops. I feel like I have a knife in my chest. Watching her have the blinders removed is more painful than being shot.
"Milaya…" I walk to her and sit down next to her, but her body is rigid when I try to hold her.
"What happens next?" she asks roughly. Her head drops. Even she is smart enough to know this isn't over.
"Next, we plan. The trap worked—we drew them out, eliminated three of her soldiers. But the war isn't finished." My eyes drift toward the window, then to the deadbolt and chain on the door. It would never stop them if they knew where we were, but I'm positive I wasn't followed.
"I'm scared," she whispers, and I have no doubt she is. Fear is no longer part of my vocabulary. Or at least it wasn't until I had something to fear. Losing Vera now would be the ultimate defeat for me, and I need rest to make sure I'm at the top of my game tomorrow so that doesn't happen.
"Get some sleep," I tell her. "Tomorrow, we hunt the hunters."
But sleep will not come easily tonight. My mind replays the firefight, analyzing angles and ammunition, counting survivors and planning retribution. The Radich crew drew first blood when they turned Vera into their unwilling pawn. Tonight, I drew second blood in the parking deck.
Third blood will end this war permanently.
Vera curls up on the bed fully clothed, exhaustion finally claiming her despite the day's violence. I sit in the room's only chair and watch her breathe, a steady rhythm that confirms we both survived when survival seemed impossible.
The blood on her wrist has dried to brown flakes. Tomorrow, I will help her wash it away, but the memory will remain. Tonight changed her from innocent victim to willing participant in this brutal game.