Chapter 34
Anya
I’m mentally rehearsing how to tell Maksim when I sense something’s wrong.
The soldier next to Grisha tenses up, straightens his back, then calls out:
“Grisha.”
“I see it.”
The driver responds and floors it, the engine roaring. I twist around, trying to see what alarmed them, but I can’t. For the second time this week, gunshots ring out way too close.
I hear bullets pounding against the armored car’s body and windows. A scream tears from my throat as I cover my ears and duck.
“Stay down, Anya!” Grisha shouts, eyes locked on the road, driving like he’s in a race.
Shots keep slamming into the window on his side and the front windshield. The sound is deafening, and I pray the armor holds.
“They’re aiming for the tires!” the man in the passenger seat shouts, and I curse myself for not even knowing his name.
We’re about to be shot and killed, and I don’t even know the name of the guy risking his life to keep me safe.
He pulls out a gun, lowers the window, and leans just slightly out of the car, aiming at whoever’s shooting at us and returning fire. A bullet whizzes his way, hitting the dashboard, barely missing Grisha.
“CLOSE THE FUCKING WIN…”
Grisha’s shout cuts off. I look to see what stopped him, but all I feel is the car shaking, and out of the corner of my eye I see my guard’s limp body, his head lolling.
Blood runs down the side of Grisha’s head. He’s completely limp.
Dead.
Gravity disappears. Everything flips upside down, and the deafening crash of metal against pavement and shattering glass consumes me. I focus on holding on and protecting my belly until everything goes black.
A sharp ringing pierces my ears. I open my eyes and struggle to make sense of the world’s new angle. Am I sideways? No, upside down. The seatbelt digs into my shoulder and chest, my hair hangs the wrong way, and glass shards are everywhere.
The car flipped.
Something hot trickles down my temple and drips onto the ceiling. I touch the spot—my hand comes back red with blood. I don’t feel pain. Not yet.
I take a deep breath.
Outside, gunshots still echo in the distance, mixed with screams.
“Grisha?” My voice comes out hoarse, choked. “Grisha.”
I turn my head to look for him.
He’s upside down like me, held by the belt, but there’s far more blood on his face, and his head hangs at an unnatural angle. I saw him die before the car flipped, but I wanted to be wrong.
This man—so focused and reserved, who never complained about accompanying me, who just waited at the bedroom door with a brief nod and called me “ma’am” with a deference I didn’t deserve.
Now he’s dead. Grisha is dead.
Gunshots nearby snap me out of my grief. I need to free myself and get out of here.
The passenger seat is empty. The door on that side was torn off. There’s blood on the headrest, and the man who was sitting there is gone.
I grip the belt, find the button with my thumb, press. My body tips until I fall onto my shoulder against the crushed ceiling. The world spins, my head throbs, but I don’t let myself pause for more than a second. I get on all fours over the shards and crawl out through the broken rear window.
The broken glass slices my palms, but I keep going without flinching, pulling my body out. Shots ring out beside me, and when I turn, I see the second guard sitting against the car, firing to keep the attackers back.
“You have to hide!” he says quietly, glancing my way for a split second before turning back to shoot.
“How?”
“The road’s blocked both ways. You can’t run that direction. You need to get into the forest. Find a hidden spot, somewhere between rocks and trees, lie on the ground and cover yourself with leaves and mud. It’s getting dark—they won’t find you.”
“You have to come with me!” I beg desperately, terrified I won’t remember all his instructions.
“My leg’s broken. I can’t keep up. I’ll cover you while you run.”
I look at this soldier, so young and so loyal, willing to die to give me a chance.
“I don’t know your name,” I whisper.
“It’s Antoniev, ma’am.”
“Thank you for this.”
“Everything for the Bratva.” He presses his fist to his chest and adds, looking me in the eye, “Everything for the Queen.”
The breath leaves my lungs. My eyes blur, and he turns back into position, pulling another pistol from his waistband. He cranes his neck, scans the area, then orders:
“Go now!”
And I go.
I go and leave Antoniev behind. To die. Just like Grisha, left in the twisted wreck with its wheels in the air.
The second car in our convoy sits sideways across the road, riddled with bullet holes, both doors flung open, glass everywhere.
Bodies here and there, fallen in unnatural positions.
I keep running, heading for the trees like Antoniev told me, and when I realize the shots have stopped, I choke back a sob. He didn't survive.
I touch my belly through my coat, silently begging this baby to be strong. We're fifteen minutes by car from the property. I can't make it there on foot, not in the dark. But Maksim will notice I'm gone soon—I just need to stay hidden until then.
I run into the woods, almost reaching the first trees, but I'm stopped. A large, ice-cold hand clamps around my wrist, keeping me from going any further.
A hand covers my mouth before I can scream, and an arm wraps around my body, crushing my ribs. The man carries me like a rag doll, even as I struggle, dragging me back toward the edge of the road.
I kick wildly, trying to hit anything, until I connect with something—a shin or a knee.
He grunts and grumbles, and I use the distraction to drive my heel into the top of his foot.
While he curses, his grip loosening slightly, I spot two more men approaching.
They emerge from behind one of the shot-up cars, wearing balaclavas to hide their faces.
I'm more terrified of being taken than of dying here. So I bite the hand still clamped over my mouth. I sink my teeth hard through the cheap leather glove until I feel bone resisting.
The man howls in pain and lets me go.
I fall to my knees at the edge of the road, and the searing pain shooting through my bad knee makes me lose my vision for a second. I try to get up quickly, but I can't. I fall again, and once more the man grabs my wrist as I try to escape.
The bracelet Maksim gave me slips off, falling from my arm to the dirty ground at the roadside—giving me a chance to break free. Now I realize the man attacking me was dragging me back to the road, closer to the others with their covered faces.
“You bitch!”
He yells and throws a punch at me.
By pure instinct, I twist my body. I wrench my torso as far as I can so the blow lands on my ribs instead of my belly.
Once again the world seems to flicker—goes dark and snaps back. I lose all my air, as if my lungs were emptied all at once. I'm left with my mouth gaping, trying to catch my breath, but nothing happens. The air won't come.
As I try to breathe, the man drags me toward a car—more easily now. A loud buzzing fills my ears. All I can do is mentally repeat a single phrase.
It didn't hit my belly.
It didn't hit my belly.
It didn't hit my belly.
Rage swells inside me, growing massive. More men approach, and the trunk of a large black SUV is already open, waiting for me.
“DON'T TOUCH ME!” I try to break free, but they laugh in my face.
I fight a little more, in vain.
“Enough of this, we have to go.”
One of them says, and a moment later I feel something wet against my mouth. A cloth soaked in some harsh chemical covers my mouth and nose, cutting off my air. My airways burn and my vision darkens as my legs go weak.
And then, I black out.