9. Veronica
VERONICA
The journey from the safehouse to the next checkpoint is silent.
We’re all watching the road. Expecting to be ambushed at every corner. Every turnoff.
But nothing happens.
The checkpoint car park is empty except for a litter of cigarette butts and the three blacked-out vehicles clustered at the far end like carrion birds at a crime scene.
It’s not yet morning, but the sky has begun to turn that rotten bruise color at the edge of the horizon. It’s the kind of hour that makes it impossible to tell how late, or how early, things are.
My body aches in a thousand different places, and I can’t see any hint of the softness I usually see in the men I fuck—the Tolya brothers have none of that. I wonder if I should be worried about that.
Mikhail walks me briskly from the bullet-riddled SUV toward the waiting changeover vehicles with his hand pressed flat to my lower back. It’s not a guiding touch, it’s possessive and guarded—all business.
He doesn’t look at me. Every part of his body is turned toward the new vehicles, toward the on-ramp, toward the curve of the highway beyond.
Sergey is already there, crouched behind the trunk of the lead sedan. His hands work at the license plate with a flathead screwdriver, each motion is sharp and practiced. The metal shrieks once, then falls away with a sound like a dropped tooth.
Sergey glances up as we approach, face unreadable, then turns back to the job.
There are more cars than we need, and Mikhail mutters something about finding the keys.
Sergey straightens, fishes something out of the pocket of his leather jacket and tosses it to his brother.
He catches it in midair. A glint of silver in the weak light.
Keys.
A small crack of relief starts to break through my fear. But just a small one.
Mikhail unlocks the sedan and pulls the door open.
“Get in.”
The interior is cold and still smells of someone else’s fear-sweat. The vinyl is cracked and pocked with cigarette burns. I sit with my knees together, hands folded in my lap, and watch the world through the glass.
Mikhail fishes two battered phones from his coat pocket. He smashes them, one after the other, against the chipped concrete lip of a drainage ditch. The screens fracture like ice, and he scatters the pieces into a rusted oil drum already half-full of chemical sludge.
Sergey finishes with the plates, wipes his hands on his jeans, and slides into the driver’s seat.
Mikhail drops a match into the oil drum and gets into the passenger seat.
Sergey shifts the car into gear. The engine grinds, then catches.
We idle for a moment while Mikhail watches the lot in the side mirror, then the car rolls forward and out of the service area.
The tires make a brittle sound as they cross the scattered grit and glass.
Sergey pulls onto the side road, but avoids the freeway overpass. I turn to watch it pass by. They’ll be waiting for us on the freeway—expecting us to hit the next checkpoint.
We take a left at the gas station, then another left where the old highway peels away from the city like a scar. There are no other cars, no witnesses. I see only the backs of empty warehouses and the looming stanchions of power lines that march parallel to the road.
We follow a slipstream of low, fast-moving traffic out and away from anything I recognize.
I’ve never been this far from Novarra before.
I’d been afraid to go to Orlov’s compound—hours away from the city.
But I wasn’t afraid of this.
Not with them.
Maybe I was being stupid. Maybe I should be afraid.
No one speaks. Mikhail checks his watch, then the glove box, then his watch again. Sergey’s hand is tight on the wheel.
I’m the only one who seems to care about the view.
I count signs. I note the time on a passing bank clock—5:31, then 5:37, then nothing but fields and the asphyxiated light of a single, ancient billboard advertising cigarettes no one has smoked since before I was born.
In the side mirror I see the first rays of sun stain the horizon. The car is moving faster now, the landscape blurring. I feel the change in speed before I see it on the dashboard.
No one has asked me if I’m cold. No one has offered water or food. But they’re not eating or drinking, either. My stomach growls.
At the edge of the mirror, Sergey meets my eyes. He doesn’t hold the gaze, he just lets me know he knows I’m watching, then looks away.
I don’t know where we are going. But there’s a set to Mikhail’s shoulders that tells me we’re past the point of no return.
They’ve missed a checkpoint. I know that for sure. Maybe two.
The silence in the car is so complete that I can hear my own breath, sharp and irregular.
I keep my hands in my lap and focus on the points of pain: the cut on my elbow, the scabbing line on my jaw, the faint ache in my ankle where I must have twisted it in the scramble after the gunfight—the delicious ache in my limbs and between my thighs as the memory of our tryst shudders through my mind.
The drive turns endless. The first hour is a blur of washed-out highway, the city a rumor behind us, but the sun never seems to rise high enough to warm the inside of the car. We pass from the perimeter into a strip of nothing.
“Are we still on the same route?” I ask. I pitch my voice to sound neutral, maybe even bored. I want them to think I’m asking because I have to, not because I want to.
Mikhail says, “We’re making better time this way.”
He doesn’t sound convinced.
They promised me they would help me—but I hadn’t believed them.
I was starting to believe them now.
I watch every sign and every overpass. I count the cars that pass us, which is only two, both going the other direction.
The first is a battered delivery truck. The second is a police cruiser that seems to slow down a little after it passes us.
Sergey’s eyes are on the rearview mirror, waiting for it to turn and snap on its lights.
Mikhail’s hand is tight on his gun.
I turn around to watch—if we’re going to get caught, I want to see it coming. But the cop car speeds away in the other direction.
I watch it shrink into the distance.
Sergey exhales through his nose. “Fuck,” he mutters.
I wonder what they might have done if the cop had pulled around. Would Sergey have stomped on the gas, or would he have pulled over? My gaze moves to the gun on Mikhail’s thigh. What would they have done?—
Mikhail doesn’t say anything, but his hand loosens on the gun. His thumb traces a slow circle on the grip—he’s counting, calming himself the way I count cars.
My reflection stares back at me from the side window. I look like someone who’s been through something, which is accurate.
Too many somethings to count.
The sun finally breaks above the tree line, and the light is so sharp it hurts my eyes.
I shade them with my hand and watch the landscape transform from gray to gold.
The fields on either side of the road are empty, stripped bare by winter, and the fences sag with the weight of neglect.
I don’t know how far we are from Novarra.
I don’t know if I care.
How far could we get before they wouldn’t chase us?
“We need to stop soon,” I say as firmly as I dare. “I need to use a bathroom, and I’m starving.”
Sergey glances at me in the rearview mirror.
His eyes linger a beat too long, and I see something flicker there—concern, or maybe just the memory of what we did.
His gaze drops back to the road. “There’s a rest stop in about ten miles,” Sergey says, his voice rough.
“We can grab food and use the facilities there.”
Mikhail shifts in his seat. “We don’t have time to?—”
“Ten minutes,” Sergey interrupts. “We need to eat too. And I need to piss.”
I watch the tension between them—the way Mikhail’s jaw tightens and Sergey’s shoulders square. It’s a familiar dance, one I’ve seen since the first moment I met them. Mikhail calculates risk; Sergey follows instinct.
“The rest stop is fine,” I say, inserting myself into their silent argument.
Mikhail glances at me over his shoulder. For a moment, I think he’ll override us both, but then he nods once. “Ten minutes. Not a second more.”
No more discussion. Just the road ahead of us.
The rest stop appears like an oasis in the desert—a sad little building with flickering fluorescent lights and a parking lot that’s half-empty. Sergey pulls into a spot near the entrance but away from the other cars. I notice how he parks facing the exit, engine still running.
“Stay here,” Mikhail says, his hand already on the door handle. “I’ll go in.”
“I need to use the bathroom,” I remind him. “I don’t think you can do that for me.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I see the slight tightening around his eyes. He doesn’t like this—any of it. The deviation from the plan—what plan—the vulnerability of stopping, the uncertainty of what comes next.
“Fine,” he says, the word clipped. “But we’re quick.”
He opens his door and steps out, scanning the parking lot with practiced efficiency. I slide across the seat and follow, my legs stiff from hours of sitting. The morning air hits me like a slap—cold and sharp with the smell of diesel and wet asphalt.
Sergey kills the engine and joins us, his hand hovering near his jacket where I know his weapon is concealed. Together, we move toward the building in a tight formation, Mikhail in front, me in the middle, Sergey bringing up the rear.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead and cast everything in a sickly greenish hue. A bored-looking woman behind the counter barely glances up from her phone as we enter. The bathroom is at the back, past rows of packaged snacks and refrigerated drinks.
“I’ll wait here,” Mikhail says, positioning himself near the bathroom door. His posture is casual, but his eyes never stop moving—tracking the entrance, the counter, the hallway to the kitchen.
Sergey nods and moves to the far side of the store, keeping his back to the wall. He picks up a bag of chips, studies it, and puts it back down.
I slip into the bathroom, grateful for the momentary privacy.
My reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink startles me.
I look like a ghost—pale, bruised, my hair is a tangled mess.
The cut on my jaw has scabbed over, but it stands out against my skin like a brand.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the exhaustion that clings to me.
It doesn’t help. I still look like hell.
Like someone who’s been running for her life. Which I have.
It’s ridiculous. A few days ago I was having a hundred dollar lunch at one of Novarra’s favorite bistros.
Now gas station sandwiches and stale chips were all I’d eaten…
A frantic giggle bubbles in my throat, but I swallow it down.
That wasn’t my life. That was the life my father had allowed me to live.
This was the one I was choosing for myself.
If that’s what it looked like, I would be grateful for it.
I use the bathroom quickly, keeping my ears tuned for any sound from outside. The door creaks when I open it, and Mikhail is exactly where I left him, his body angled to watch both me and the entrance simultaneously.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I’m totally not okay.
My throat is tight—maybe it’s gratitude, maybe it’s fear that this is all going to fall apart in a hail of bullets.
Sergey appears at my side, a bottle of water and a bag of snacks in his hand. He offers them to me without ceremony. “Eat. You need to keep your strength up.”
The gesture is so unexpected that I blink at him. “Thanks.”
He shrugs, already turning away. “Don’t mention it.”
Mikhail checks his watch again. “Seven minutes. We need to move.”
I peek into the bag. Water, food that won’t spoil, a first aid kit that Sergey grabbed from a display near the counter. The woman behind the counter doesn’t look up from her phone as we push the door open and step outside.
Back in the car, I tear open a protein bar and take a bite. It’s dry and tasteless, but my body responds with immediate gratitude. Better than nothing.
You’re alive, that’s enough.
For now.
Alive for now. Enough for now.
But for how long?