39 #2
"Look, this isn't necessary," Mauro protests, measuring his tone, hands raised halfway.
"Ms. Popova. I respect you. I looked after your sisters—made sure they didn't get expelled, that they excelled in school.
I did what a good caseworker would. Those.
.. things between them were a one-off. A tool.
No obligation. They took it as a joke. It was games. I looked out for them."
"Don't take me for a fool," Irina cuts in without raising her voice. "And don't 'Ms. Popova' me to sell me garbage. Lie again and you don't walk out of this clearing."
Mauro’s Adam’s apple trembles. He doesn’t take his eyes off the gun, but he tries to smile. He wipes the water off his face.
"Vega, Alaska, who's who?" Mr. J blurts, leaning back. "Please. You’ve got it made. Forget it. Leave this here and everyone goes their own way. This isn’t good for you."
"Forget." The word pricks my gut. It already got me hot when Vega said it, though in her mouth it was something else. In this asshole’s mouth it lights my fuse. I want to open my mouth and tell them that "forget" isn’t a button. I bite my tongue.
"They know everything—they know who you are and what you did to us," Vega says, her tone steady.
"And so do we. I look at you and all I see is that shitty office.
I see the door closed. I see the red light on the camera.
I see the desk shoved against the wall. There was no art there, no play. You fucked up our childhood."
Mauro shrinks, makes himself tiny. He tries again, clumsy, with that old tactic that’s stuck to them:
"You... came too. We didn’t force you. You smiled. You liked it. You played along. It was a pact. Nobody got hurt. Don’t make a scene now."
"You liked it." It comes out of him with rotten poison.
My skull booms; blood pounds in my ears and I lose the sound for a second. Alaska takes half a step. A short, clean move forward. I lift my arm a few inches, a dumb reflex to stop her. I lower it. I’m not the one who stops Alaska. Vega is.
"Don’t say that again," Vega says without raising her voice. "Not one more time."
Alaska turns her head a millimeter, looks at her out of the corner of her eye. There’s an agreement there, a silent one, the kind that doesn’t need words. It throws me off. A nervous laugh bubbles up in my chest and I choke it back.
"I..." Mr. J fishes for air, runs his tongue over his lips, glances at our guns and does the math. "If you want, we can talk. Tomorrow. Calm. We can work this out... No need for theater. Say what you’re asking for. Money? Apologies? I’ve got an office, I’ve got a schedule. Don’t do this."
"No," Alaska cuts in at last, cold. "Here. Now. Hands on your head."
She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t ask if we’re good with it. She just says it. Her certainty surprises me. It fits her so naturally it scares me that it might be natural. She extends a hand and points at them.
Alexei pulls his boot back for a second. Mauro hesitates. Bad call. Anton squeezes his shoulder and drives his knees into the dirt. Mr. J raises his arms halfway, complains.
"This is kidnapping," he mutters. "You’re insane. You have no idea what you’re getting into. I make one call and half the world shows up."
"We weren’t going," Vega says. "You came. For us. And you’d close the door. And you’d cover the clock. And you’d hit 'rec.'"
Mr. J squirms. He leans back and bumps into Anton. He looks at me, hunting for a kinder face. I don’t have one today. I haven’t had one in years, who am I kidding.
"I..." he tries. "It was different. You were smart. You knew what..."
"Don’t finish that sentence." Vega pins him with her stare.
"You’re ungrateful bitches," Mauro spits, dropping the manners. "You owe me everything. The clean record, the scholarships, the grades. I busted my ass for you. And now you come to screw up my life over a handful of warped memories. I wasn’t the monster in your movie. You were the ones who..."
Alaska tilts her head a degree. Silence. Mauro closes his mouth, opens it. Grinds his teeth.
"No one’s going to believe you," Mr. J says, and that’s where the mask slips. "You’ve got a reputation. You’ve got photos. You’ve got stories. I’ve got signatures. I’ve got paperwork. I’ve got lawyers. You’re getting slapped with a lawsuit."
"Keep the signatures," Vega answers. "Keep the paperwork. I don’t care."
Irina sidesteps left, cuts the angle, and doesn’t say a word. She stakes out ground her way—dry, no posturing.
Alexei doesn’t blink. Anton doesn’t let go.
Stupid little detail buzzing in my ears: Vega doesn’t look at the ground.
Not at roots, not at rocks, not at branches.
She walks straight. She walks sure. Too sure for this shithole.
They’ve got the situation by the throat and Irina doesn’t step in; she lets them handle it, mouth half tight, a little stunned.
I look at Rashel and she’s more wound up than me, which is saying something.
A silence drops, the kind that leaves the back of your neck damp.
They’re breathing hard; so are we. They won’t meet our eyes, their throats working, swallowing air and bile.
They start sentences and trample them, excuses that won’t even start.
A mosquito brushes my eyebrow and I don’t move.
I came braced for shouting, for shoves, for punches, and instead I get this control.
I don’t know if it calms me or scares the shit out of me. Both, fine, let’s not lie.
“You’re going to regret this,” Mauro mutters, fingers laced behind his head. “This doesn’t end here. Who paid your tuition. You too, Alaska. Don’t look at me like that. You stepped in front of the camera. You begged for the spotlight. You were fourteen and looked twenty. Don’t fuck with me.”
Alaska doesn’t move. Not a muscle. Mr. J lets out a short, hollow laugh and kills it with his tongue.
“No one’s going to save you,” Vega says, quieter.
She takes a step. Then another. Stops beside Irina.
Then something happens that freezes me solid: Vega takes the gun out of her hand.
Not only is there no resistance—Irina offers her the grip, turns it a hair so Vega gets a firm, exact hold.
They look at each other. One second. In that second, fuck, something gets signed.
“Easy,” Alaska tells me, soft, without looking at me. No garnish, no drama. Cold. Too cold.
My body—the one trained for this shit—starts singing me a full list. I shift half a step right, just enough to keep a clean line of fire and a tree for cover.
If a shot goes off, I know where I need to be.
I don’t want one to go off. Not for those two assholes.
For them. For Vega. And, fuck, most of all, for Alaska.
“Eyes down,” Alaska orders. “I just want the others’ names. Don’t make us.”
“And if we don’t?” slips out of Mr. J, already red, already past caring. “You gonna shoot? Go on. Do it. Let’s see if you’ve got the balls.”
The air shrinks. My back tightens. Vega doesn’t shake. The opposite. She takes one breath. Slow.
“Don’t provoke me,” she says. “You’re not in your office. You’re not in charge. Not anymore.”
Mr. J looks away. Mauro clears his throat, bites the inside of his cheek. He opens his mouth again and in the end says nothing. His shoulders drop. He gives a little. Not enough. The hate’s still there underneath. You can see him counting minutes, waiting for a mistake.
Vega raises the gun. The rain soaks us, runs down our sleeves, slides into our collars. The clearing is mud and puddles, leaves plastered to our boots. The car’s headlights cut a dirty cone of light and leave the rest black. My pulse redlines.
I see her: finger off the trigger, arms out, shoulders tight, a stance pulled from a half-remembered tutorial. Clumsy, sure. And still there’s a force that makes me clamp my jaw till it hurts. She aims at their chests, back and forth, no rhythm.
Their eyes are wide, lashes loaded with water, breaths short. The taller one shakes. The other has his hands half raised, palms toward us, wrists locked. The corners of their mouths twitch. The fear shows raw, and I’m embarrassed for them.
Irina stays off to the side, one step back.
Hip turned, weight on her right leg, dripping.
She watches and gauges. Vega has no clue how to use the gun; Irina hasn’t taught her.
I’d bet the safety’s still on. Irina doesn’t take her eyes off the slide for a second.
I hang on to that. She’s ready to shut it down if she has to.
“Higher,” Alaska says, barely a thread, steady. “There. Don’t drop your wrists,” she adds, almost no breath. “Hold.”
Vega lifts a millimeter. She doesn’t look at Alaska. No need. Her bangs stick to her forehead; she breathes through her nose, mouth clamped shut. Her index finger rests straight on the frame. A tic jerks in her temple.
“Hey, hey… easy,” Mr. J says. “No need. We can talk.”
“Shut up,” the other spits without looking at him. “Don’t provoke her.”
Irina’s not stupid, fuck. She’s not going to off them here.
This points to something bigger. She wants the whole network taken apart.
Every brick of the home reeks of shit, and if these two disappear, we get a parade of questions, patrol cars, reports, rubber stamps.
She’s already got the cops on her. If now, right now, two guys from the place where they had her sisters—the one we just found—vanish, the spotlight burns a hole in her.
Plus she’s wiping her ass with JARSI’s ten commandments. Later she’ll say it was personal. The others will come down on her anyway. It’s not worth it. Not for anyone.
Irina shifts her weight to the other leg. A tiny gesture. Alaska sees it. So do I. Air only gets halfway in. Outside, I’m rigid. Inside, everything spills over, but I don’t let it out. Not here.
"Say again that we liked it," Vega fires off, not lowering the gun.
Her voice comes from somewhere else. Clean, zero doubt, pure rage. Every hair on my body stands up.