Chapter 6 Kazimir
KAZIMIR
The storm is dying.
I watch through the space in the boarded-up window as the wind goes from a howl to a whisper, and the snow that's been falling in thick curtains thins to scattered flakes. The sky is lightening too—not dawn quite yet, but the gray that comes just before it. In another hour, maybe less, visibility will be good enough that if Iosef and his men are out, they’ll be able to see the smoke from our woodstove.
I check my watch. It’s almost four a.m. Svetlana is sleeping soundly on the bed; despite her distaste for the rusticness of all of it, she’s slept well since we’ve been here. I’m not sure her body would let her do anything else. She desperately needed the rest and to heal.
She looks softer like this, curled up on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek.
I know I shouldn’t be sitting here just watching her sleep, but it’s hard not to.
The hard edges she's developed—the wariness, the calculation—all of it smooths away when she’s like this, leaving behind the woman I remember from that party two years ago.
The woman I couldn't stop thinking about, even when I should have been focused on the job.
I'm still not focused on the job. Which is a problem.
I should be thinking tactically. Planning our route to the safehouse, calculating the risks, preparing for contingencies.
Instead, I'm thinking about the way she looked at me earlier, wearing that oversized shirt with the top buttons undone that could have been one of mine.
The way she'd positioned herself, all that pale skin on display, testing me.
Trying to figure out if she could use my attraction to her as leverage.
She could. That's what pisses me off.
I'm not some green kid who can't control himself around a beautiful woman. I've been doing this work for all of my adult life. I've seduced targets, extracted information, and played whatever roles Ilya needed me to. I know how to separate what I want from what I need to do.
But with Svetlana, those lines keep blurring.
Maybe it's because I knew her before, because I wanted her when she was Ilya's, when touching her would have been the ultimate betrayal.
Maybe it's because I left her behind once, and I'm trying to make up for it.
Or maybe it's simpler than that—maybe I just want her, and all these rationalizations are bullshit.
It doesn’t matter. I still can’t have her. I can’t ever have her.
And I shouldn’t want her.
I busy myself by checking my gun, counting how much ammo I have left.
Not as much as I’d like, given what we’re up against, but it’ll have to do.
I have my knife, strapped to my thigh, and what’s left in the emergency pack from the SUV—a first aid kit, some protein bars, a thermal blanket, and matches.
I can take some of what’s in the cabin, but I won’t be able to fit much in there.
I glance toward the window again as I pull the chamber back on my gun, and what I see makes my blood freeze in my veins despite the warmth of the cabin.
Lights. Small, flickering lights, coming through the filtered haze of the slowing snow.
Fuck.
I cross the room in three strides, shaking Svetlana awake with my hand on her shoulder. She bolts upright, eyes wide and frightened, and I press my hand over her mouth before she can make a sound.
"They're close," I say quietly. "We need to move. Now."
She nods, and I take my hand away. She climbs out of bed as quickly as she can, wincing in pain, and I push a pair of the hunters’ boots over to her with three pairs of thick wool socks.
“They’re too big for you, but the socks will help. You can’t go out there barefoot again. Put on some of the pants too, and we’ll find something to keep them up with. And layer a sweater over that shirt.
Svetlana grabs more clothes out of the chest, and I quickly avert my eyes as she pulls the pants on, pushing the shirt up around her waist. She shoves it down into the pants, yanks a belt through the loops, and ties it off, then rolls the waistband around it until the pants seem like they might stay up.
When I look at her again, she looks like a fucking model wearing some designer’s attempt at fashion via oversized men’s clothing.
God, if only she weren’t so fucking gorgeous. We’re on the verge of discovery, and all I can think about for a split second is how hard my cock is the moment I look at her.
Fucking hell, Kaz, get it together.
She’s moving as quickly as she can, yanking on pair after pair of socks and shoving her feet into the boots, lacing them up tightly and wrapping the laces around the ankles. I look at her quizzically. She hasn’t shown the slightest inclination toward survival skills before this.
“How on earth do you know how to—”
“Fashion,” she says bluntly, and yanks a sweater over her head, her groan of pain muffled by the wool.
By the time I’ve gathered our things, she has my jacket on, the throw blanket we pulled out of the car bundled around her neck and down into it like an oversized scarf, gloves on, and a thick beanie pulled down over her ears.
I find another pair of gloves, a beanie, and a sweater in the chest, and yank them all on, then my parka, before shouldering the pack and looking at her, my gun in my hand.
“We’re going to head in the direction I think the safehouse is,” I tell her flatly.
“Stick with me, and we’re going to stay as deep in the trees as we can.
Make it hard for them to get to us. We need to move fast. The storm's clearing—they'll be able to track us, and I remember Iosef said they have dogs. "
Svetlana pales, and I wish I hadn’t mentioned that. But she just nods, following me to the door as I ease it open and check outside.
The lights are closer now, and I can hear the high-pitched whine of snowmobile engines cutting through the quiet. They're coming fast, and they know where we are. Someone must have found the SUV and followed our tracks.
Shit. My jaw tightens. They have snowmobiles, so they’ll be faster than us… but we can also get into places in the woods they won’t be able to. We might be able to lose them, if we’re quick.
"Stay close," I tell her, glancing back. "Step where I step. Do exactly what I say, when I say it. No hesitation. If I tell you to run, you run. Don't look back, don't wait for me. Just get to the tree line and keep going northeast. Understand?"
She nods tightly, and I let out a sharp breath.
"Okay."
We slip out into the pre-dawn darkness. The snow has stopped completely now, and the wind is just a whisper. Our breath fogs in the air, visible even in the dim light.
I lead us away from the cabin, angling toward the forest. The snow is deep—above our knees in places—and every step is an effort. Svetlana's breathing hard behind me, but she keeps up. The lights are getting closer. I can make out individual headlamps now, sweeping across the landscape.
We're nearly to the tree line when I hear a shout. They've seen us.
"Run!" I hiss, and Svetlana obeys, bolting as fast as she can through the deep snow toward the forest as I follow her, ready to turn and shoot as soon as anyone is close enough.
The forest swallows us, branches whipping at our faces, roots hidden under the snow trying to trip us.
I can hear the snowmobiles behind us, engines revving as they give chase.
They can't follow us into the dense trees, but they can try to circle around and find where it thins out again, and cut us off. We can’t go in a straight line.
I pull Svetlana to the left, changing direction.
She stumbles, and I catch her, hauling her upright.
Her face is pale, her lips pressed together in a tight line, and I see a thin line of blood freezing on her chin where the split in her lip has opened up again.
But she doesn’t complain. She just keeps going, her eyes wide with fear.
The sound of the engines is everywhere now, echoing through the trees. I can't tell how many there are or where they're coming from. We need to lose them, need to—
A figure steps out from behind a tree directly in front of us, and I don't think. I just react.
I shove Svetlana to the side and bring my gun up, squeezing off two rounds in quick succession. The first one goes wide, but the second catches him in the shoulder. He goes down with a grunt, and I'm on him before he can recover.
It’s a man I don’t recognize—one of Iosef’s guards, maybe.
He looks to be in his thirties. He tries to grab for the gun that fell from his back when I shot him, and I kick it away.
He swings at me, and I block it, driving my elbow into his face, hearing the sound of bone crunching.
He falls back, blood streaming from his nose, and I hit him again and again until he stops moving.
"Kazimir." Svetlana's voice cuts through the red haze. "We need to go."
She's right. I can hear voices now, calling to each other. They know we're here. They're closing in.
I grab the man's rifle—a hunting rifle, bolt-action—and check the magazine. Four rounds. Better than nothing.
"Move," I tell Svetlana, and we're running again.
The forest is getting lighter. Dawn is coming, and with it, the end of our chance at cover in shadows and the depths of the trees. And, as we bolt forward, I see a man with a rifle step out from behind a boulder a few yards ahead of us.
"Down!" I shout, and Svetlana drops. The crack of the rifle shot echoes through the trees, and bark explodes from the trunk next to my head. I bring up the hunting rifle and fire back, the bullet going wide. He’s moved already, using the trees for cover.
I fire again. This time, I see him jerk and stumble, a red spray staining the snow. Not a kill shot, but enough to slow him down.
"Go!" I tell Svetlana, and she's up and running. I lay down covering fire—two more shots, both of them wild—and then I'm running too.