16. Veronica #2
He waits a beat, then adds, “Orlov’s men are finished.
Rats in the granary. Half the crews are switching sides already.
Nobody’s coming for the girl except bounty hounds and journalists.
” He finally turns to look at me, and the weight of his gaze is like a hand pressing the air from my lungs. “That angel face is everywhere.”
Sergey straightens off the car, the shift in his body language as loud as a gunshot. “Watch your mouth.”
Mikhail’s hand stops him, palm flat on Sergey’s chest. He doesn’t need to look at his brother for Sergey to obey; the gesture is more of a reflex than a command. The two of them hold the pose for half a second, then Sergey eases back and folds his arms, eyes never leaving the thickset man.
I hold the stranger’s gaze, let the silence run until it wants to die. “It’s a good thing I’m not her anymore,” I say.
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. He steps back from the dock. “Keep the bag,” he says and then turns and walks away, not bothering to check if we’re watching. In a few seconds, he’s just a shadow on the sidewalk.
We don’t say anything. Mikhail sits on the tailgate and counts the money, the notes make a soft, paper-on-paper sound.
He checks each passport, the edges, the lamination, the stamps.
When he’s satisfied, he tears the wrappers off the phones and powers them both on, then turns them back off after a single blink of the welcome screen.
Sergey leans against the loading bay door, scanning the alley every few minutes. “The address?” Mikhail asks, voice low.
“Across the line,” Sergey says. “West, past the first city. We’ll make it by midnight if we run.”
Mikhail nods. He looks at me, then at his brother, then away. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him avoid eye contact.
I run my fingers over the new passport, the raised holograms are cold under my thumb. The name inside is in block capitals. Marta Leopold. I wonder what she would do next.
Mikhail stands, tucks the cash into an inner pocket, and zips the duffel. “We move now,” he says.
Nobody disagrees.
For a while, we just stand there, three fugitives and a bag full of paper lives, watching the sunset paint the rust on Breva’s warehouses.
I’m not her anymore, I think. And maybe it’s true. But as the morning light spills over us, I realize I don’t even know who I am now. Just that I am.
And that will have to be enough.
When night falls, the world outside is flat and endless and the BMW glides over it like a ghost ship.
The highway is a two-lane with no name, cutting east to west through fields that have already been burned down for winter.
The only thing taller than the horizon is the power lines marching in double file alongside the road, their shadows stretching until they flicker out of sight.
This is the first time I’ve sat up front.
Sergey made a production of it, opening the door with a flourish and jerking his head toward the seat, but never explaining why.
I almost refused out of habit, but then I saw the way he winked at Mikhail—like it was a joke just for the two of them—and I couldn’t give them the satisfaction.
Now I’m in the passenger seat, shoulders hunched forward, watching the fields shift in the rising moonlight.
Mikhail drives with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white, eyes on the next curve even when the road is arrow-straight.
He hasn’t said more than ten words since we left Breva, but I can hear him thinking in the flex of his jaw and the measured clicks as he signals for every single lane change, even when there’s no one else alive for miles.
Sergey sprawls across the back seat, one boot braced against the far door, his body taking up the entire bench.
He’s not asleep—his eyes are open, and every few minutes he’ll shift his position and look at the world sliding by outside, or at the back of my head, or at the backs of his hands, still scored with black lines of dried blood.
He’s quiet, which is unusual, and I wonder if it’s because he’s run out of things to say or because there’s nothing left to prove now that we’re in the clear.
We drive like that, in silence, for two hours. The only sound is the road hum and the low breath of the heater fighting to keep the windshield from fogging.
When Sergey speaks, it’s so sudden it startles me. “What are you gonna do with a fake name, angel?”
I turn to look at him over my shoulder. He’s not smirking—he’s asking, genuinely, and the question lands with a weight I don’t expect.
“I haven’t decided,” I say.
It’s the truth. I still feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin, and the idea of a future, any future, feels like a trick question.
Sergey runs his tongue over his teeth. “You’ll have to decide who Marta is,” he says. “Is she a saint, or a porn star? Or both?”
Mikhail doesn’t look away from the road, but says, “Don’t.”
Sergey grins at the back of his brother’s head, which makes me grin, too, in spite of myself. The exchange is so ordinary, so pointless, it feels like a muscle I forgot I had is unclenching for the first time in weeks. I realize I’m not bracing myself for anything. I’m just here.
I look down at my hands, folded in my lap.
They look like someone else’s, too. My father used to make me wear rings to every political dinner—diamonds and rubies, family crests, symbols of every alliance and promise he ever bought.
They’re gone now, I traded them for a plain plastic watch and the faint ink from a stamp at the last checkpoint.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Mikhail glancing at me. His look is gone almost before I can return it—just a flicker of grey, then back to the road, but it’s enough.
Sergey has gone quiet again. The sky outside is dark now, and the moon is a ghost behind the clouds.
I let my hand drift to the door handle. Not because I want to run, or open it, or even check that it works, but just to touch it. Just to feel the chill of the metal and know that it’s mine to use if I want to.
Ahead, the highway stretches, flat and empty, no checkpoints, no convoys, no destination except the one we set for ourselves.
I lean back, close my eyes, and let the hum of the road fill my head.
For the first time, the only thing waiting for me is the world itself.
And that is everything.