Chapter 36 #2
From his pocket, the man pulls out an old, nearly dull pocketknife that he uses to cut the zip tie binding my wrists. He has to work at it before the plastic breaks, and I celebrate internally. One less weapon to worry about. There’s no way he can hurt me with that thing.
“Hurry up,” he grumbles, shoving my shoulder. “End of the hall, on the left. Don’t try anything clever—the door stays open.”
Despite the warning, he shuffles slowly behind me, keeping more distance than he should if he considered me a threat.
That’s going to be his biggest mistake—underestimating me.
I walk slowly, limping a little, keeping my shoulders slumped and my head down. I sniffle once, wiping the fake tears from my face. I let him see exactly what he wants to see: a helpless woman, injured, scared, being used as a hostage to lure her husband.
As I reach the bathroom doorway, I notice the footsteps slowing until they stop. The idiot guard has stopped a little farther back to give me privacy. From the corner of my eye, I catch the blue glow of a phone screen illuminating his chin.
This is my cue.
I spin suddenly, controlling my weight on my bad knee as my left leg comes up high enough to slam into his ribs. The man gasps—not just from surprise, but from pain. His phone flies from his hand and skitters down the hallway.
“What the—”
I don’t give him time to understand what—or rather, who—hit him.
When he doubles over trying to catch his breath, I swing my right leg up straight toward his chin.
The sound is horrible, a loud crack, and I don’t know if it comes from him—his jaw and teeth—or from me—the metatarsals that may have shattered.
The pain is sharp, but I don’t back down.
I watch his body drop like a sack of potatoes, the back of his head hitting the concrete hard, and I go after him.
I mount his broad chest, throw my right leg over his neck, and hook my thigh under his chin, trapping his throat.
I squeeze, channeling all the strength of eighteen years of ballet into the hold.
Adrenaline surges through my veins. I don’t really process the sounds I hear—the gurgling, the whispers, the attempt to scream... My mind is silent, focused only on surviving and escaping.
His short nails scratch me, and with his long arms, the guard tries to reach my hair but only grabs a handful, which comes out in his hand when I pull away. I scream—from the pain of hair being ripped out and from rage—concentrating all my strength until he stops struggling.
I think he’s passing out, and I’m ready to loosen my grip until I notice his big hand groping at his waist, searching for his weapon. I see the black grip of the pistol appear, and the whole world narrows to a single thing:
If he draws, it’s over. I’ll die here—me and my child.
My hand slides down my leg, palm scraping the side of my boot, and my fingers close around the carved wooden handle.
I pull the knife and don’t hesitate.
I plunge the blade into his chest again and again. One, two, three, four... The blood stains his shirt, stains my hands. I hit the arm that came back up to stop me too. He raises his forearm, and I can see exactly the spot Yelena showed me.
I sink the knife into the flesh and pull hard, watching the blood spurt up over both of us. There’s so much more than I imagined, and it’s hot—so hot—soaking my pants, seeping into my boot, creating a large, dark puddle on the concrete floor.
He arches, kicks, and thrashes a bit more, his eyes red and bulging from lack of air, until he looks at me one last time. I let go quickly, panting, exhausted, wanting to get away from this.
The horror I caused.
I slide through the thick blood, breathe deeply, and watch the man who was guarding my cell die.
The hallway is silent now.
My whole body is shaking. I’m still holding the knife in my right hand, which trembles so much I have to look down to make sure it’s really mine.
The smell hits me—the same one that clung to Maksim’s shirt the night they attacked my house. The night they shot Olga and almost killed Ivan.
I can’t contain the nausea. I just turn and vomit up what little is in my stomach. The nausea comes in waves, stealing time I don’t have.
I can’t stay here. I can’t stand still.
When the spasms in my stomach seem to stop, I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, breathe through my mouth so I don’t smell it anymore, and get to my feet.
The man lying on the blood-covered floor has his head slightly turned toward me, seeming to stare, dead with his eyes open. Even though the sight is one of immeasurable horror, what I expect to feel doesn’t come.
I feel no guilt.
I just took someone's life—a human being who probably had a family—but I don't feel guilty. I want to blame myself for it, but something louder screams inside my head.
It was him or me.
It was him or my child.
I would always choose us, no matter what.
I bring my free hand to my belly, let it rest there for a second, and the blood from my palm stains my shirt.
We're getting out of here. Hang on a little longer.
I whisper to the tiny baby inside me. I look around, searching for the exit. Even after all this commotion, no one else has appeared, which confirms my theory that they underestimated me. I stretch my arm out until I can reach the pistol sticking halfway out of his waistband.
It's much heavier than it looks, and I have no idea what to do, so I summon all my useless Hollywood knowledge and look for two things: a safety and a trigger.
The phone he was using now has a shattered screen, but it still works. No signal, though. I pocket it anyway, just in case. My knife goes back where it belongs, and then, slowly, with a lot more pain in my right knee, I stand up.
I walk down the long corridor, limping far worse than before. My right foot throbs too, after connecting with the guard's jaw. I feel like I'm close to the exit—there's a draft coming through here—and when I turn the corner, I hear footsteps and shouted orders in the distance.
I press my back against the wall, grip the gun with both hands like a professional, and wait for someone to come for me. My heart feels like a drum pounding in my throat and reverberating through my chest.
Outside, gunfire erupts. A lot of it. It sounds far away, but not too far. A loud metallic bang rings out. Once, twice, three times. It's above my head, and only now do I realize this corridor is underground.
Someone's trying to break down a metal door up there.
Men shout, footsteps pound across the concrete, and more shots are fired. In loud, deadly bursts.
Everything goes silent after that. Only my breathing reverberates through the corridor until the heavy sound of a metal door being ripped from its frame breaks the silence.
I raise the gun toward where I heard the bang. My arms are shaking and my hands don't seem steady, but I keep them raised. Someone's coming my way, and I won't hesitate to choose myself again.
The footsteps approach.
Approach.
And turning the corner, illuminated by the flickering light of the dingy corridor, a silhouette I recognize appears. But when I raise my eyes expecting to find the skull mask that haunts everyone, all I find is a scar.