Chapter 17 Sofiya
Sofiya
SONG: DEAD MEN DON’T RAPE BY DELILAH BON
The light burns my retinas, and I force myself to look anyway, cataloging each figure in the doorway like I'm memorizing targets at the range.
Father stands center, aged but still imposing, power radiating from him in waves I remember too well.
Anatoly beside him practically vibrates with anticipation, already reaching for the keys to our cage.
And Volk. Standing just behind Anatoly’s left shoulder, face carved from stone, that damned X under his eye catching the fluorescent glare. He’ll have to carve his face up even more now.
My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a conscious effort, each inhale deliberate and controlled. He came. Of course he came. Whatever fantasy I'd entertained in weak moments dies here in this concrete tomb. Angel's fingers dig into my palm hard enough to bruise.
"Yelena." Anatoly’s voice rolls through the space, Russian accent thick, showing his heightened emotion.
I say nothing. Words are weapons I can't afford to waste.
He steps closer to the bars, studying me like I'm an insect pinned to cardboard. "You've caused quite a lot of trouble.” His lips curl into something approximating a smile. "Did you really think you could hide? That I wouldn't eventually discover the truth?"
"I wasn't hiding." My voice comes out stronger than expected, edged with steel I've been forging for ten years. "I was preparing."
Anatoly laughs, the sound gravelly. "Preparing to die, apparently. Because that's what happens next, little girl. Slowly. Painfully. And this time, there's no desert to crawl away into."
The garrote wire bites into my palm where I've wrapped it around my hand, hidden against my thigh. Angel shifts beside me, positioning herself. We've had an hour to plan this final stand, to accept we're dying here but we're taking someone with us. Preferably Anatoly. Definitely Anatoly.
Anatoly produces keys from his pocket, tosses them to Ivan. "Bring her out. I want to look at her properly before we begin."
This is it. The moment the cage door opens, the brief window where chaos might give us an advantage. I tense, muscles coiling, counting heartbeats. We're unarmed except for the garrote. Wounded, exhausted, outmatched in every measurable way. But I've survived worse.
The lock clicks, and Ivan swings the door wide, reaching for me with greedy hands.
I wait until he's close enough to smell his rancid breath, then I move.
The wire loops around his throat before he can react.
I yank backward with everything I have left, feeling it bite deep, watching his eyes bulge with satisfying shock.
He claws at his neck, trying to get purchase on the thin strand slicing into his flesh.
Angel surges past me, diving for the fallen keys.
I see Volk moving in a blur, leaving Angel and me to our fate, disappearing down the hallway.
Anatoly shouts something, pulling his gun.
I duck behind Ivan's thrashing body, using him as a shield, hauling him back into the cage. Blood seeps around the wire as he makes choking sounds that almost sound like my own screams from that night. He’ll be completely decapitated in another few minutes. Good. Let him know how it feels.
"Enough." Anatoly’s voice cuts through the chaos, aiming his gun at Angel.
Time fractures. I see Anatol's finger tighten on the trigger, see Angel's eyes go wide with terror, see my entire miscalculation playing out in brutal clarity. We were never going to escape. This was always how it ended.
The gunshot cracks through the air.
Angel falls.
She crumples like a puppet with cut strings, blood blooming across her chest, weapon clattering from lifeless fingers. Volk lowers his gun, smoke still curling from the barrel.
Ivan has gone still in my grip. I don't know if he's dead or unconscious, and I don't care in this moment. I release the garrote, letting him fall. I stumble to Angel, resting her gently on the filthy ground in my arms.
“Finish it,” she whispers before closing her eyes.
I say a small prayer she survives this, survives while I do what must be done.
Before I can move again, Anatoly is on me.
He drags me out of the room, kicking and screaming, though my screams sound weak, even to me.
He drags me down the corridor before thrusting me through an open door, and I crash to the floor, shrieking from the pain of landing on my already damaged knees.
He grabs my hair and drags me through what I now see is one of the apartments.
I leave a trail of smeared blood behind me on the previously pristine wooden floors.
Kicking open another door, the wooden frame shatters, splinters hitting my face.
I barely react, what is a little bite of wood compared to what I’m already feeling?
He throws me in a bathroom, and I land on my backside, sitting in an awkward position.
He yanks me forward, ignoring my hiss of pain when the pressure of the movement hits my ribs.
He makes quick work of grabbing the sash from the linen curtain and crudely ties my hands behind me before shoving me back so hard my head bounces off the rim of the tub.
He grabs supplies from under the bathroom cabinet, and Iread the labels through partially swollen eyes.
I see a giant HF, scrawled in ugly handwriting.
“You don’t deserve what I had planned for you,” he says, unscrewing the lids of the bottles then turning to face me.
“This”—he gestures to the bottles on the counter—“ is going to make you disappear. And it’s going to take time and hurt like nothing you would believe.
” He moves from the counter to stand in front of me, facing the edge of the tub and balancing one foot on the ledge. “But first, this is for Ivan.”
I pull frantically on the sash tying my hands while he starts to undo his belt, pulling down his zipper.
His shriveled, flaccid dick is soon in his hand and he begins to pee.
The first stream of warm, disgusting liquid hits my thighs, and I gag, continuing to pull at the sash, then I feel it loosen but not completely release.
Thankfully over the noise of his stream it’s not audible.
Anatoly is almost done, shaking his dick and preparing to tuck it back in when I launch myself.
I rise to my knees, gritting my teeth to ignore the pain, and using the slickness of the tub and his urine to slide until I’m right in front of him.
I don’t hesitate, diving on his dick and biting.
Hard. He screams, a haunting, high-pitched noise as I tear my mouth away, taking a large piece of him with me and spitting it out on the floor.
I vomit as he stumbles backward, arms flailing as he stares in horror at the bloody stump that used to be his penis.
I fling myself over the side of the tub, landing painfully on my shoulder and stumbling to my feet.
Anatoly frantically shoves a bath towel at his crotch, trying to staunch the bleeding.
I don’t think twice before lunging and shoving my shoulder into his back, sending him careening face first into the tub.
Before he can react, I reach my still secured hands behind me and grab one of the bottles.
I hear splashing, feeling the burn as acid hits my hands but keep moving, and soon I'm flinging the acid over Anatoly’s prone form.
He’s sliding around, trying to find purchase but can’t.
His screams start all over again, deep, primal sounds of suffering, and I relish them.
Before the first bottle is completely empty, I throw it in the tub with him and grab another.
And another. Soon he’s covered and the tub is partially filled with acid.
Anatoly stops moving, clearly losing consciousness but still alive, as the acid continues to eat through his clothes, his flesh, his bones.
I find a towel hook on the wall and use it to rip through the sash and free my hands. I gently rub my wrists, leaning against the counter and catching my breath. It's almost done. Only Father left. Well, Father and…I still can’t bring myself to say it.
Angel. I make a mad dash to the room I left her in, gasping sound when I see the room is empty, save for Ivan’s body and more blood than a human body should be able to produce. I turn to look for Angel and run smack into a hard, warm chest.
“Sofiya!” Volk says my name like a prayer.
“You left us!” I hiss, flinging my fist at his face, but missing wildly.
“No, I didn’t!” he yells back, his voice shaking with emotion as he grips my arms. “Anatoly had called more men. I just stopped them from entering. I knew you could handle them.” He looks me in my eyes, wanting me to see the truth of his words.
“ When Angel got shot, I knew she couldn’t wait.
The doc is here, working on her in one of the apartments. ”
I feel my heavy breathing start to slow down, the individual pain of each injury increasing as the adrenaline in my body wears off.
“This is the only way she survives,” he says, taking a small step back, but keeping his grip on my upper arms. “We, however, need to leave.”
I stare at him, my mind desperately trying to process this information. To catch up with the current situation.
“Where is Anatoly?” he asks, searching my face. No doubt I look like a horror movie victim, coated in the blood of four different people. I can still taste Anatoly’s blood in my mouth, feel it running down my chin.
“Dead,” I finally reply, voice devoid of emotion.
“Let’s go,”he says, releasing my arms and turning away from me.
He reaches back, grabbing my hand and guiding me toward the back exit.
I see the door looming ahead of us, a bright red Exit sign illuminating the way.
Volk swings the door open and comes to a stop so suddenly, I crash into his back, releasing a sound of pain and shock.
Father.
He stands in front of his car, parked just outside the exit, with three of his men. He takes in the scene, me covered in blood, Volk holding my hand, clearly guiding me to an exit.
“I thought so,” he says, not bothering to elaborate. It’s not needed.
“You did,” Volk says before raising his gun and shooting Father.