39
NAT
Up ahead, in the wash of light, I make out silhouettes that shouldn’t be here at this hour. I don’t count how many. I can’t. I do the only thing I can control: flex my fingers, loosen my jaw, empty the garbage out of my head, and ready my body for whatever’s coming.
Irina opens her door without looking at us.
Not a hint of doubt. Rashel goes after her, not to stop her; to stick with her, practically glued.
In the back seat, Alaska and Vega try to move at the same time.
I block them with my forearm, half caress, half silent order.
I show them the screen again, the message they already read and, honestly, are going to ignore.
"Please," I add. That word in my mouth carries more weight than any order. Begging makes me half laugh, half cringe, but here we are. Brilliant strategist, Natasha: squeeze hands and say "please." Nobel material.
Alaska blinks slow. Her lashes graze her cheek.
She tucks a strand behind her ear and her hand shakes a little.
Vega swallows and it sounds dry. The air coming through the window is freezing and smells like wet pine and turned earth.
From the dark comes the latch on a gate.
A short, metallic click, final. Then nothing for a long second. I breathe, count to two, still nothing.
Irina opens our door.
"Get out," she orders.
Vega looks at her from the shadows, hand clamped on the handle, torn between getting out and climbing over me.
"Is that an order?" she asks, a hint of defiance.
"No," Irina says, voice weirdly calm. "If you don’t want to, Natasha will take you home."
No one answers right away. No need to explain anything. The twins get it. Irina knows they get it. And I know we all know that "going home" isn’t on the table.
Vega gets out first, jacket zipped tight, chin up, defiant.
Alaska follows, a step slower than her sister but just as determined.
Rain slicks her hair to her temple; dark strands streak her forehead.
I huff; a white cloud leaves my mouth and my lips tremble.
I open the other door, circle the car, and plant myself beside her.
I’m not leaving her alone. The ground squelches under my boots—water and mud.
The smell of pine blows in clean, fresh, so perfect it grates in the middle of all this shit.
My right foot soaks through and I let out a breath instead of complaining.
Total darkness. Only the headlights carve out silhouettes and pick out puddles, stones, branches.
Our engine’s already off; there’s the tick-tick of cooling metal.
The trees lock the way, dense, no gaps. The wind whistles thin, the kind you get right before dawn.
Leaves knock against each other; dry, repetitive.
The cold burns my nose and the jacket isn’t doing a damn thing.
I breathe this clean air and it pisses me off that I like it.
In the clearing, a third car waits, still, engine cold. Black hood with no shine, dark windows, license plate spotless. I reach toward the flashlight on my belt, then pull back, so I don’t come off dramatic.
Anton and Alexei flank Irina, one on each side, tight. Not a breath wasted, waiting for the cue. Irina lifts two fingers, barely a gesture, and they catch it instantly. I know her, and I know this is solemn for her, but I also know she’s putting on a bit of a show. For them.
They start walking without hurry and cross the clearing, leaving deep prints in the mud. I loosen the collar of my jacket, try to look useful, and end up with a weird grimace. Vega doesn’t look back. Alaska does find my eyes for a second; pins me with them, and I don’t know what’s in it.
They pop the trunk. The hinge lets out a groan that sends a whipcrack down my neck.
They haul two guys out of the back. No zip ties, no gags, though their eyes are wrecked.
Their necks tremble, drool hanging off them.
The ride has them KO’d, and we haven’t even really gotten started.
The headlights blow their faces out in a white blast and they go slack-eyed.
One lets out a furious grunt, the other manages two syllables and his tongue trips.
"What… what is this? Who…?"
They don’t finish. Anton and Alexei move instantly. A sharp shove, no niceties. Both to the ground, on their knees, hands in front, shins knocking into rocks. The impact rattles my teeth. Water jumps and spots the cuffs of my pants, which have been dragging shit since the first puddle.
They look up and see us. See them. They go rigid. Their breath catches. The rain now falls in straight lines; in a beat they’re soaked. Behind them, Anton and Alexei loom in the half-light, big, immovable, faceless. They intimidate without saying a word. Up front, it’s us. And them.
Vega and Alaska are two paces away, shoulder to shoulder, not budging an inch. The two guys see them and their tough-guy act falls apart.
I glance at them sideways, trying to fish something out of their heads.
Mission impossible. Vega’s eyes are glass and blade.
Alaska’s have a strange shine. Rage? That twitchy kind of fear that warns there’s a curve up ahead?
Pure disgust? Surprise? A murky satisfaction neither you nor I would ever say out loud?
All of it, depending on the blink. My stomach loosens. I tell myself I’ve got this. Lie.
The rain hardens a little and the sky turns mean.
Irina stays silent, eyes locked on the two of them.
Rashel to my left, shoulders hunched, lips sealed, hands in her pockets, ready to pull something or pull nothing.
I readjust my coat, try not to show how jittery I am.
And then Alaska’s hand slips in behind me, finds me.
Quick touch, a brush that looks like nothing and is everything to me. Nobody notices. I do.
Headlights spit light at them in bursts as the rain passes in front, leaving their skin somewhere between yellow and gray.
One has dried blood on his eyebrow. The other’s mouth trembles.
I don’t know them, but I know the type. The usual: big shots at the bar and in the WhatsApp group, ego through the roof and the fine print always tilted their way.
They brag about control until the table flips.
Then they’re nobodies and their voices go thin.
Anton takes one step. He doesn’t need more. Both of them flinch, barely. The grouchy one drops his head. The stammerer tries to talk, thinks better of it. Rain hammers around us, drums on the car roof, rings off the leaves.
Vega moves just enough for them to see her better. Light paints half her face and leaves the other half dark.
"Let’s get to it," she says, in a tone I didn’t know she had.
The one with the bloody eyebrow looks at all of us, quick, not sure where to land. He looks at me, and I get a dumb urge to smile at him. I don’t. I bite the inside of my cheek.
"No…" the one on the left starts, his voice thick. "We don’t know why… Look, please. This has to be a misunderstanding."
"Jota, Mauro, meet my sister," Vega spits.
They look everywhere. They hunt for openings that don’t exist. Out here there’s nothing but pines, mud, and dark. Anton sets a hand on one of their shoulders, a brief touch. Alexei plants his boot on the other’s knee, firm, full sole.
"Ma’am," Mauro stammers, looking at Irina. "Ms. Popova. We saw it in the papers, on TV. We know who you are. You don’t need this. Honestly, you shouldn’t stain your name over the fantasies of bitter girls.
Let us finish the night in peace and we’ll talk tomorrow.
You know how to pull strings. We’ll cooperate. We won’t say a word about this."
"Shut up," Alaska cuts him off. She doesn’t raise her voice. Then she starts listing: "ongoing abuse, grooming minors, coercion, distribution of intimate material, cover-ups, threats, administering drugs without consent, falsifying reports."
"Ms. Popova," Mr. J adds. "With all due respect. I can keep things under control. These girls have big imaginations. They say things that didn’t happen. Or happened differently. There are reports. There are therapists. They can’t prove any of it."
"What happened…" Mauro tries on a voice that isn’t his; his throat trembles. "I… I apologize. They misinterpreted it, but I apologize."
The word hits the ground without weight. I swallow and acid rises. My hands sweat inside my pockets. Alaska’s gaze stays still, focused, measuring breath. She rattles me and she steadies me. Vega’s somewhere else entirely. Chin up, shoulders set, jaw locked. She doesn’t shake.
"To who?" Vega asks, and the question hits them without a sound. "Us? Or the girls you’re abusing now?"
"It’s not like that," Mauro blurts, avoiding eyes. "And you… you already understood. We never touched you… And we took care of you. We got you out…" He slams on the brakes, bites his tongue; he knows he was about to say something vile. "We’re not proud, but…"
He wants to rewrite the story in two sentences. The tells are obvious. I know that tone. I’ve heard it a thousand times. They’re testing for pity, hunting for cracks. They think there’s still one here.
"Ms. Popova," Mr. J insists, softer, "no one wants to disrespect you.
The girls are wound up. They mix stories.
Those videos were work material, therapy.
Bonding exercises. The psychologist backed it.
There was no harm. Nothing dirty. Not a single step out of line. There are protocols. Signed paperwork."
Rashel steps forward without warning and slaps him across the face. The crack is sharp. A brief echo between the trunks. He touches his cheek, eyes wet and anger badly hidden.
"Say 'therapy' again and I'll smash your teeth in," Rashel spits, inches from him.