28. Maksim
MAKSIM
T he tunnel system branches in three directions ahead of us, and I hear them before I see them—the soft scrape of boots on concrete, the metallic click of safeties being released. Karpin men. They think they have us cornered.
They're wrong.
I count their breathing patterns, map their positions by the echo of their movement. Three men, maybe four. They're trying to box us in, but they've made a critical error. They don't know these tunnels the way I do.
"Stay behind me," I tell Zoya, my voice low. "When I move, you move."
She nods, her face pale in the dim light. Her hand rests on her stomach, protective and instinctive. I've seen that gesture a hundred times since we learned about the baby, and it never fails to make my chest tighten.
The first man rounds the corner with his weapon raised, and I put two bullets in his chest before he can fire. He drops clean, his gun clattering across the concrete. The sound echoes through the tunnels, and I know we've lost the element of surprise.
"Vetrov!" The shout comes from somewhere to our left. "Come out and we'll make it quick!"
I don't answer. Instead, I move through the shadows, using the support columns and debris as cover and keeping Zoya safely behind me. The second man tries to flank us from the right, but I'm already there. My knife finds his throat before he can pull the trigger, and he goes down gurgling blood.
"Two down," I mutter, wiping the blade on his shirt.
The third man is smarter. He hangs back, waiting for me to make a mistake. I can hear him breathing, thirty feet away, pressed against a maintenance door. He's trying to be patient, but fear makes men stupid.
I work my way around the edge of the platform, keeping low. Zoya follows with silent footsteps. When I'm close enough, I make my move.
The man sees me coming and raises his gun, but I'm already diving. The shot goes wide, sparking off the tunnel wall. I tackle him into the maintenance door, and it gives way under our combined weight. We crash through into a narrow service corridor, and I feel his elbow connect with my ribs.
Pain shoots through my side, but I don't let go. I slam him against the wall, once, twice, until his grip on the gun loosens. It falls to the floor, and I kick it away.
"You disgusting pig... He'll kill you..." the man gurgles with my hand wrapped around his throat.
I'm about to respond when I hear Zoya scream my name.
It's a keening cry of terror that makes my blood run cold.
I release the Karpin soldier and spin around.
Damir stands in the doorway of the maintenance room, his face twisted with rage.
In his hand, he holds a combat knife. He's breathing hard from running, though I thought he already left.
It looks like he only went to find his backup, and I can barely make out the outline of Zoya near the wall in the shadows.
"You took everything from me," he snarls.
"You gave it away," I reply, moving to put myself between him and Zoya.
"She's my sister!"
"She was your sister. Until you sold her out."
He lunges at me with the knife, and I barely get my arm up in time to block. The blade skims across my jacket, tearing through the leather. I grab his wrist and we struggle for control of the weapon.
Damir is desperate, which makes him dangerous. He fights with the frenzy of a man who has nothing left to lose. But desperation isn't enough. I've been training for this my entire life.
I twist his wrist until he drops the knife, then drive my knee into his stomach. He doubles over, and I bring my elbow down on the back of his neck. He crashes to the floor, but he's not finished.
Rolling away, he comes up swinging and his fist connects with my jaw, snapping my head back. I taste blood, but I don't go down. I return the favor, my knuckles splitting open against his cheekbone.
"You destroyed her life!" he shouts, throwing another punch.
I duck and drive my fist into his ribs. "You destroyed it first."
We grapple in the narrow corridor, slamming into walls and pipes. He's stronger than he looks, but I'm better trained. I get him in a chokehold, but he bites down on my arm and I release him with a curse.
"Maksim!" Zoya's voice is high with panic.
Damir hears her and lunges toward the doorway. I catch him by the back of his shirt and haul him backward. He spins around and kicks me hard in the chest. I stumble backward, my heel catching on the edge of a step.
The stairwell. I hadn't realized we were so close to it.
I fall backward down the concrete steps, my shoulders and back slamming against the edges. Each impact sends shockwaves of pain through my body. I count seven steps before I hit the bottom, and by then my vision is blurring.
"Zoya!" I hear Damir's voice above me. "Come with me now!"
"No!" Her voice is fierce, defiant. "I'm not leaving him!"
I force myself to my feet, ignoring the fire in my ribs. Damir is at the top of the stairs, reaching for Zoya. She's backing away from him, her hands raised defensively.
"We don't have time for this," he says. "The Karpin men are coming. If they find us here, they'll kill all of us."
"Then run," she tells him. "But I'm staying."
"I won't let you?—"
"You don't get to decide anymore." Her voice is steady now, final. "I made my choice."
Damir's face crumples, but there's no time for family drama. I can hear footsteps echoing from deeper in the tunnels. More Karpin soldiers, moving fast.
"Zoya," I call. "We need to go. Now."
She doesn't hesitate. She turns away from her brother and runs down the stairs to me. I catch her hand as she reaches the bottom, and together we head for the exit.
"Zoya, please!" Damir's voice follows us, but he doesn't give chase. He knows it's over.
We burst through the emergency exit into the Moscow night. The cold air hits my face, and I can smell exhaust and cigarette smoke. We're in an alley behind a row of shops, and I can see the main street ahead.
"There," I point to a black sedan parked at the curb. "That one."
"How do you know it'll start?"
"Just get in!" I snap as I throw my elbow into the driver's side window, then climb in and unlock the doors. I pull out my knife and jimmy the ignition, popping the metal cylinder out and quickly stripping the wires back.
The engine turns over on the first try, and I pull away from the curb just as the first Karpin soldiers emerge from the metro entrance. They see us and start running, but we're already moving.
"They're following us," Zoya says, looking back through the rear window.
I check the rearview mirror. Two cars, maybe three. They're gaining on us, but I know these streets better than they do.
I take a hard right onto Tverskaya Street, tires screaming against the asphalt. The car behind us tries to follow, but the driver takes the turn too fast. I watch in the mirror as he clips a parked car and spins out.
"My God," Zoya breathes in fear, gripping the door handle with white knuckles.
The second car is more careful, but he's also slower. I weave through traffic, using the congestion as cover. A taxi honks as I cut in front of him, but I'm already three cars ahead.
I hear the crack of gunfire and feel the rear window explode. Glass showers the back seat, and I floor the accelerator. The car surges forward, engine roaring.
"Maksim." Zoya's voice is tight with fear. "They're shooting."
"Stay down," I tell her, taking another hard turn.
We're on a residential street now, narrow and winding. The houses flash past in a blur of lights and shadows. I can hear the pursuit behind us, but they're having trouble keeping up.
Then I hear the sound that makes my blood run cold—the high-pitched whine of a bullet ricocheting off metal. They got our tire.
The car lurches to the left, and I fight to keep control. The steering wheel jerks in my hands, and I can feel the rim grinding against the asphalt. We're losing speed, and fast.
"There." Zoya points to a narrow alley between two buildings. "Can we fit?"
"We're about to find out."
I yank the wheel hard to the right, and we careen into the alley. The car scrapes against the brick walls on both sides, sparks flying. Behind us, I hear the screech of brakes as our pursuers realize they can't follow.
We emerge onto another street, but the car is finished. Steam pours from under the hood, and the tire is completely shredded. I pull over and kill the engine.
"Out," I tell Zoya. "We go on foot from here."
We abandon the car and run through the maze of back streets. My ribs are on fire, and I can taste blood in my mouth, but I don't slow down. Zoya keeps pace beside me, her breathing hard but steady.
After ten minutes of running, I finally allow us to stop. We're on a quiet side street, hidden in the shadows between two apartment buildings. I lean against a wall and try to catch my breath.
"Are you hurt?" Zoya asks, her hands on my face.
"I'm fine." But I'm not. I can feel something grinding in my chest when I breathe, and my vision keeps blurring at the edges.
"You're bleeding."
I look down and see that my shirt is soaked with blood. Some of it is mine, some of it belongs to the men I killed. I can't tell the difference anymore.
"I thought you were going to die," she says quietly. "When Damir had that knife, when you fell down the stairs… I thought I was going to lose you."
"You didn't lose me."
"But I could have." Her voice breaks. "My whole world flashed before my eyes, and you were in every part of it. The baby, our future, everything—it all centers around you."
I pull her closer, ignoring the pain in my ribs. "We're safe now."
"Are we?"
"For now." I look around the empty street. "But we can't stay here."
I know a place. A safehouse the family keeps for situations exactly this. It's not far, maybe twenty minutes on foot. We can rest there, plan our next move.
"Come on," I tell her. "I know somewhere we can go."
We walk through the quiet streets, staying in the shadows. My ribs feel broken, and every step sends pain shooting through my chest. But we're alive, and that's what matters.
The safehouse is a small apartment above a bakery. I have the key, and within minutes, we're inside. The place is sparse but clean—a bed, a table, basic supplies.
"Sit," Zoya tells me, pushing me toward the bed. "Let me look at those ribs."
I sit down carefully, and she lifts my shirt. The bruising is already starting to show, dark purple spreading across my chest.
"They might be broken," she says.
"They're cracked. Not broken."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've had broken ribs before." I catch her hand and bring it to my lips. "I'm fine, Zoya. We're both fine."
She looks at me for a long moment, then nods. "What happens now?"
"Now we disappear for a while. Until it's safe to come back."
"And Damir?"
"He made his choice. He'll have to live with it."
She curls up beside me on the bed, careful not to jostle my injured ribs. I wrap my arm around her, and for the first time in hours, I allow myself to relax.
We're safe. Battered and exhausted, but safe.
For now, that's enough.