Chapter 18 Volk
Volk
SIX DAY WAR BY COLONEL BAGSHOT
I pull the trigger before I can second-guess the decision.
The shot hits the Pakhan in the shoulder, and he spins with the impact, crashing against the car behind him like a broken marionette.
Blood blooms across his expensive shirt in a beautiful pattern .
His gun clatters to the floor and skitters across concrete into shadows where it becomes irrelevant.
"What the fuck?" He clutches the wound with his other hand, applies pressure while his face contorts into something between rage and genuine confusion. "What are you doing?"
"Correcting a mistake." I keep my weapon trained on his chest. My hand doesn't shake. Never has. Never will. "One I should have fixed ten years ago."
His men freeze in the doorway behind us.
Five of them, all armed, all waiting for orders that won't come because their boss is bleeding and trying to understand why his most trusted soldier just put a bullet in him. The math is simple. They can shoot me, but I’ll get one last kill shot off before I go down.
The Pakhan knows this. I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes even as blood seeps between his fingers.
"You fucking предатель." The words is pained. "I gave you everything. I made you everything you are." He spits the words like venom.
I don't look at Sofiya. I can't afford the distraction when five guns are pointed in our general direction. "You ordered me to kill her in the desert because you couldn't control your own ego. Because you were too much of a fucking coward to do it yourself."
"She's nothing!" He tries to push off the car but fails, sliding back down with a grunt that sounds almost surprised. "A whore’s bastard. You're throwing away everything for damaged goods."
"She survived." My jaw tightens hard enough to hurt. "She survived because she's stronger than any of us. Came back and got close enough to kill you. That's not damaged goods. That's a warrior."
The Pakhan lunges for his fallen gun. The movement costs him, and I see it in how his face goes gray, how his breathing turns ragged.
But he's stubborn. Always has been. His fingers close around the grip, and I shoot again. This time I hit him in the leg, just above the knee. Careful to miss the femoral artery because I need him alive long enough to be useful. He goes down screaming, clutching his leg while blood pulses through his fingers. The men around him surge forward, but I shake my weapon, reminding them who’s in charge here.
"Don't." My voice dropping to a glacier tone. I'm not asking. They freeze. Look at each other, then look at the Pakhan writhing on filthy concrete.
"Viktor." The Pakhan gasps the name, forcing himself to focus on the biggest man. "Don't let them leave."
I grab Sofiya's arm and pull her toward the door. She moves stiffly because of her injuries, but she doesn't resist. Doesn't speak. Just lets me guide her in a careful circle around the cluster of armed men.
"You'll be hunted." Viktor's face remains neutral. "The entire Bratva will want your head. We will rain fire down on you like you have never seen." His eyes briefly dart to Sofiya before coming back to meet mine.
"Let them try." I pull Sofiya closer and feel her warmth against my side despite the blood and pain radiating from her body.
Viktor's eyes narrow slightly and understanding blooms there alongside calculation.
I don't wait for further discussion , just keep moving with Sofiya tucked against my side.
My weapon stays ready and my eyes track every movement in my peripheral vision.
These men are dangerous but they're also pragmatic.
They won't shoot if it means their boss dies choking on his own blood.
Once we’ve made it safely out of sight, the night air hits us like absolution. Cool and clean after the stench of violence and old concrete. Sofiya's legs threaten to give out, but I catch her weight easily, supporting her without slowing our pace.
"Can you make it?" I ask.
"I'm making it now." Her voice comes sharp despite obvious pain.
"That's not what I asked."
She doesn't answer, just keeps her head held high through sheer spite that would be impressive if it wasn't so fucking stupid.
Her knee is almost destroyed, her ribs are probably broken, and she's bleeding from a dozen cuts that need stitches.
But once again she refuses to give in, to die.
I respect that. Even though I hate it. When will she have suffered enough?
The car materializes in the darkness. A nondescript sedan that costs too much but looks like nothing special. Exactly the vehicle that disappears in traffic. I open the passenger door and help her inside despite her attempt to do it herself.
"Where's Angel?" She finally looks at me with eyes glassy from pain or shock or both.
"With the doctor.” I glance at my watch. “He’s probably stabilized her and moved by now. He’s taking her to a safe place." I close her door and move around to the driver's side with my weapon still drawn. "She's safe." I keep the ‘hopefully’ to myself.
I slide behind the wheel, start the engine, and pull away from the curb with practiced calm that belies the adrenaline screaming through my system.
"You didn't kill him." Sofiya's voice carries something I can't quite identify. Disappointment? Relief? Calculation?
“We both know that kill doesn’t belong to me.”
"So, we just wounded him and ran away." She laughs but the sound holds no humor. "Ten years of planning and it ends with him alive and us fleeing like cowards."
"It ends with us breathing." I take a corner too fast. "It ends with him bleeding and scared and realizing his most trusted second just betrayed him. That's not nothing."
"It's not revenge either."
"No," I agree because she's right. "But it's a start. And right now, we need to focus on survival. On getting you patched up properly. On planning the next move instead of mourning the move we didn't make."
She goes quiet and stares out the window at darkness rushing past. I can practically hear her mind working.
The safe house appears after forty minutes of driving. This one is smaller, more remote than usual. Tucked into desert that stretches in all directions like an ocean of sand and scrub brush. I park in the attached garage and wait for the door to close before killing the engine.
"Stay here." I pull my weapon and clear the interior room by room. When I'm satisfied we're alone, I return to help Sofiya out of the car.
She's gone gray around the edges. Shock finally catching up with adrenaline's retreat. I lift her despite her weak protest and carry her inside to the bedroom where medical supplies wait in neat rows on the dresser.
"I can walk," she mutters against my chest.
"You can barely stand." I set her on the bed and start pulling supplies down. "Let me do this. Let me help."
She doesn't argue further. Just sits there while I work, cleaning wounds with steady hands that have cleaned hundreds of wounds before. I apply antibiotic ointment and fresh bandages,wrapping her knee properly, check her pupils for signs of concussion. She flinches but doesn’t make a sound as I make quick work of stitching up her cuts.
I finish bandaging with her looking at me like I'm either her salvation or her destruction.
She reaches up and touches the X tattooed below my eye. Her fingers are gentle despite everything. I catch her hand and press it flat against my face. Her eyes fill with tears that don't fall. She blinks them back with visible effort.
I release her hand reluctantly and return to cleaning wounds because touching her in ways that aren't medical feels dangerous right now. When I finish bandaging the last cut, I step back and give her space to breathe without my presence crowding her.
"You should rest. Your body needs time to heal."
"What about Father?" She doesn't lie down. "What about the men who'll be coming for us?"
"We have until morning at least." I move to the window and check sight lines out of habit. "Viktor needs time to stabilize Father. Get him to a hospital or the compound's medical facility. By the time they're organized enough to mount a search, we'll be gone."
"Gone where?"
“To finish the job or die trying.”
She finally lies back against the pillows, her face turning paler than before. "I'm so tired. Too tired to think about next steps or plans or anything beyond this moment."
"Then don't." I move closer again. I can’t seem to help myself. "Just rest. I'll keep watch."
"You need rest too."
"I'm used to functioning without it." I settle into the chair beside the bed and keep my weapon within easy reach. "Besides, someone needs to stay alert in case I'm wrong about our timeline."
Her eyes drift closed despite obvious effort to keep them open. "Wake me if anything happens."
"I will." I won’t.
I watch her breathing even out and the tension slowly drain from her body as exhaustion claims her completely. She looks younger in sleep. More vulnerable. Less like the hardened warrior who killed a man with her shoe and more like the girl Father's men destroyed in the desert.
The X on my face throbs. Phantom pain from a tattoo I got specifically so I'd never forget this moment. Never forget what I failed to prevent. Never forget the choice I made that turned me into something I could barely stand to see in mirrors.
When she wakes, we spend the next hours mapping assault vectors, timing guard changes, and identifying weak points in compound security.
Our combined knowledge creats a strategy that's achievable instead of suicidal.
We account for variables, plan contingencies, accept casualties we might take while minimizing innocent deaths.
By the time darkness falls again, we have something resembling a workable plan.
"We move tomorrow night." I stand and stretch, joints popping. "That gives you time to heal just a little bit more and gives me time to gather additional resources."
She moves toward the bedroom and pauses at the door. "Don't leave tonight. Stay with me."
The vulnerability in her voice undoes something in my chest. I've heard men beg for mercy, heard women scream in fear, heard every variation of human emotion distilled to its rawest form. But this quiet request from a woman who's spent ten years trusting no one hits different.
Hits harder.
I follow her to bed and settle beside her on top of the covers. She turns toward me, careful of her injuries, and rests her head against my shoulder.
"Tell me about where we go after," she says softly. "Tell me what our future could look like."
So I do. I describe the cabin tucked into the mountains of Montana, the lake stretching cold and clear, the way morning fog rolls through valleys like something out of a painting.
I talk about silence that isn't threatening, about stars visible without city lights drowning them, about the possibility of days that don't include violence.
Her hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers threading through mine with surprising strength. "I want that," she whispers. "I want it so much it terrifies me."
"Then let's make it happen." I squeeze her hand gently. "Let's finish this and get the hell out of this life."
Her breathing evens out as exhaustion claims territory pain had been holding. But before she falls asleep completely, I know one thing is true.
Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.
We survive tomorrow. Together.