Chapter 2 OKSANA #3
"Chamber," Coyote says, trying to herd me right, toward a steel door marked with red paint. My eyes flick left, to a darker branch that blows cold air, a ventilation shaft. An exit sign Mother Nature carved herself. I tip my chin toward the red door like a good girl and snare the keys off Belly’s belt with two fingers when his eyes flick away. Nobody notices a woman’s hands when she looks compliant.
The chamber is a reinforced room with a battered table, a target against rock, and two men already inside to play audience. It’s also the kill box they think they’re gonna shut. My skin goes very calm. The kind of calm that lives right before the knife lands.
"Show us," Crooked Nose says, stepping back.
I raise my hands, "Hey, I'm just the delivery pilot, I don't play with those bricks."
I set the bag on the table. The bag is filled with a few of the bricks from the plane. My heart rate does not climb. It descends. Cold. Heavy. Assessing. Preparing.
I start to unzip the bag, pushing it slightly toward Belly.
He nods at one of his men, who moves slowly forward.
Inside the bag, two bricks come into view.
White powder, packed into Ziploc bags, sealed with duct tape.
I let the zipper whisper one more inch and pull out the only thing that matters: the .
45 that I taped against the bag’s spine where a sloppy search wouldn’t find it.
Things happen fast.
Belly leans forward.
I shoot him in the throat.
The second reaches for his rifle.
I shoot him through the eye.
Coyote shouts outside the door. Crooked Nose fumbles the radio. I put a round through the hinge, and the door kicks open. Crooked Nose lunges; I step in and break his nose for symmetry. He goes down like a sack of wet grain.
I move.
Out the door. Left, not right. Impatiently, I take off the cumbersome dress—underneath I wear my favorite combat uniform—and the black wig.
My scalp feels itchy, but I resist the urge to scratch it.
The air feels cooler here, and I allow myself to enjoy it for a second before the sound of boots hammering behind me alerts me.
Shots crack. Rock chips spit. I swing around a support beam and get off two blind rounds of muzzle flash.
A body drops. There were too many around to count, so I don't.
This time, when I arrive at the cages. I look. And make a beeline for the one occupied by a single inhabitant. I recognize him from the picture, even though he looks older. His cheeks are gaunter, but his eyes are alive.
Metal cuffs hold him to a ring bolt.
"Who are you?" he rasps.
"I’m your exit," I reply, fingers already working the pilfered keys into the lock. It doesn’t fit. Of course it doesn’t. I curse under my breath. "Stand back."
He does. I shoot the cuff. Stone shrieks; metal gives. He staggers and catches himself, stubborn and proud and lighter than he should be.
"Some rescue," he grumbles as shouting swells.
"Complain later," I reply, handing him the pistol from my thigh holster. "Vent shaft?"
He nods left. "If they didn’t brick it."
He sounds like he still has his wits about him. Good. "We'll find out."
Pleas ring out, ?Sácame de aquí, por favor! — Get me out of here, please! ?No me dejes, por favor! — Don’t leave me, please! ?Por Dios, ayúdame! — For God’s sake, help me!
I look at Nico, who shrugs, "Distraction?" He asks.
I nod, liking the way he thinks. Quickly, we shoot a couple of cages open, just as the shouting reaches us and the first bullets zip by.
I throw the keys at the first man coming out, let him deal with figuring it out, while Nico and I run bent-low through the dark, breath synchronizing because survival teaches you the same music everywhere.
Behind us, Spanish snaps like whips. I catch izquierda, rápido, perra—left, fast, bitch.
I smile. I really do need to learn more of this language.
We find the vent, a throat of black, cold air.
I drop first, boots scraping rusted rungs.
He sounds out of breath—years of imprisonment will do that to you—but I notice strong arms. He's not just been sitting around; he's been working out.
Shots are fired wildly into the shaft, pinging off the metal walls.
"Shit."
"You should really work on your rescue skills," Nico needles me. Right as a bullet grazes my shoulder.
By the time we hit the lower gallery, I've managed to wind some of my shirt around the flesh wound.
"Let me see," Nico demands, ripping more shirt into strips to secure my makeshift bandage. He's not insulting me by asking dumb questions or apologizing for hurting me. I like him.
"Just a graze," he announces.
"What's the plan?" He asks next, his dark eyes scanning the lower level we've reached. Water drips down the walls, stalagmites grow upward all around us, while stalactites grow downward, dripping water onto our heads. Nico has to bend underneath one to move forward.
We wedge ourselves into the shadows, listening to the shouting and calls echoing off the walls. The cavernous space makes it hard to pinpoint where we are. I hand him a bottle of water and answer his question, "I have a plane waiting for us, about two hours’ walk from here."
"That means we have to get out of here first. How many men did you bring?"
I chuckle, and he curses. "What the hell was my brother thinking?"
"Brother?" I look at him, amused. "Honey, your brother has no idea you're still alive."
That makes him curse again. "Then who the fuck are you?"
"Oksana Arsenyev." There is no reason not to tell him who I am.
"Grigori's sister?"
"The one and only."
"Why the fuck would the Russians involve themselves with rescuing me?
" He looks genuinely surprised. There is something else in his eyes, too, but I can't quite place it.
I file that thought away for later and stuff the edge of the shirt that has come loose back into the wound, hissing between my teeth, "Long story. Just be glad someone came."
"Are you going to keep me as leverage or bring me back to my family?" He wants to know, gripping the gun I gave him.
Is he being serious right now? I laugh, "You're gonna shoot me?"
"Depends."
For a split second, it's there—the telltale sign that says he's going to pull the trigger—then it's gone.
As quick as it came. Oh, I really like this boy.
The file Grigori sent says he's twenty-two now.
He was taken when he was nineteen, and three years of imprisonment have probably made him into some kind of man, but to me, he's just a boy, a boy considering any means to stay alive. Yes, I can appreciate that.
"And you think I'll tell you the truth now that you’re pointing my gun at me?" I challenge him.
"I’ll know if you tell the truth or not," he replies confidently, and I laugh out loud.
"I was going to take you to your family, but after insulting me by pointing my gun at me, I might have to kill you."
"Okay," he turns suddenly as we both hear the noise. Both of us shoot in the same direction. A subdued moan and the thud of a body tell us it's time to head on and to put our little discussion off for later.
We move like ghosts. The plan right now is to stay ahead of our pursuers, to take out as many as possible, and make our way back to the entrance.
"Hold on," Nico stops.
"What?"
"We need to figure out how to get out of here."
I have an excellent sense of direction. Being lost inside an abandoned mine is not on my list of priorities today. The Bratva trained me in all kinds of scenarios: urban warfare, forests, swamps, even mines. I've been there.
"No worries, I know." In the dim light that comes from some naked light bulbs hung sporadically throughout the mine, I see his frown and add, "Trust me."
He snorts. "I don't have a choice, do I?"
"Oh, there's always a choice," I remind him, and he grins.
He shakes his head. "Alright then."
By my estimation, it should be getting dark outside now, so I lead us back toward the entrance.
A few detours later, and we're back at the mouth of the mine shaft.
I count silhouettes, at least fifteen that I can see.
I hand Nico a fresh mag before pulling out a grenade.
Nico stares at it and shakes his head. He throws a skeptical glance at the mine entrance, "Risky. "
He's right, the detonation could seal the only exit we know of. I shrug, your call. He takes an exasperated breath, "What the hell, what do we have to lose?" before he nods, and I pull the pin.
I count the breaths between my teeth and the distance to the drum like I always do, measure, aim, act. The world narrows to the weight of the pin between my teeth and the whisper of dust in the shaft.
One. Two. Three.
I flip the grenade up with my good arm and let it sail in a perfect arc, watching the metal bloom into darkness.
It lands where the light dies, and then the mine forgets itself for a heartbeat, metal screams, and rock answers—a sound like the earth closing her teeth.
The blast punches air out of the corridor, and for a second, the world is all sound and flying grit.
We don't wait to count the pieces. We roll, hard, behind the first drum within reach. Rock dust coats my tongue; a man screams like he’s been surprised by his own death.
Boots thunder where men stood seconds ago; bodies move like ropes in a storm.
I taste copper and feel the heat on my cheek where a pebble hit.
"Now," I hiss, and we explode from our cover.
The corridor is chaos. Men run like animals with their chests full of wrong decisions.
My gun muzzle flashes in the dark. I put two into a man who surprises me within arm’s reach; his face goes soft and wet, and then nothing.
Nico moves like a man who has been practicing for this his whole life, quick and uncomplicated.
He covers angles I don’t see. He is good at violence, the way some are good at painting: it's ugly and precise.