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Josh's eyes narrow—he's connected the dots. "Yevgeniy. You said he'd act fast, but I didn't think..."
I tilt my head, listening to the sirens draw closer. "I can't stay here with the cops coming. I'd offer you a ride with me, but that's not wise, I think."
"No," he agrees quietly. Something passes his face, then he tightens his jaw, staring at me with new determination. "I should have believed you from the start."
My thumb moves in a blur over my phone as I message for a private taxi. "The police will want to talk to you. I suggest you take the opportunity."
"And do what?" he asks.
"Find cops who are honest. If you’re lucky, some of the ones showing up might be exactly that." Tucking my phone away, I hurry towards the nearby alley. "Be safe, both of you."
"You too," Audrey calls after me.
This time, she means it.
The squeal of cop cars and the honk of a firetruck peaks nearby. I resist the urge to jog. Exerting myself pulls at the bullet wound still freshly healing under my bandages. Sliding around a rusty dumpster, I exit the alley onto a side street. Unlike the front of Josh's building this section is void of vehicles—other than my own, that is.
I reach for the driver's side door, preparing to unlock it.
"How’d it go?"
Mila is leaning on the stained concrete wall opposite my car. Her ankles are crossed, her black boots glinting in the fading sun. When she stretches her arms over her head with a yawn, her motorcycle jacket rises off of her waist, letting me see the handle of a knife. It's a decoy to distract from the many others she's hidden on her body.
I tap the hood of my car with a scowl. "You used too much fuel. It wasn't supposed to draw the attention of every firetruck in the damn city."
"Did it work?" she sighs.
Peering over her head, I note the smoke still floating in the distance. "Yes. Josh is willing to help us."
"He's going to be pissed when he realizes you lied to him."
"Fuck what he thinks," I say, unlocking my car. "I need him to buy us some time."
"Not worried about the long term?" she asks suspiciously. Mila strides toward me until she's on the other side of my car, eyeing me over the top of it. "Guess it's easier to not be alive for the blowback than to say you're sorry, huh?"
I don't respond.
"Arsen, I'm just fucking with you." She bends her knees like she's about to leap over my car and tackle me. "But what I want to know right now is if you're going to do something suicidal." She's waiting anxiously for me to expand upon my plans. The smoke continues to sway in the air behind her, curling, ever lengthening.
It reminds me of Galina's hair as she danced in my dream.
I slip inside my car. Before I shut the door, I reply curtly. "No."
Were it so easy.
41
GALINA
Ruslan hasn't stopped shaking. He’s been like this during the whole car ride. I have to half-drag and half-carry him into the large townhouse, all the way down a dark hall that Yevgeniy shoved us through. As my mother and I huddle in the small backroom we've been stashed in, Ruslan continues to shake.
"I didn't want to do it. I didn't, I swear I didn't," he mutters. It's all he’s been able to say.
Brushing his hair from his forehead, I push him to my chest. "You're okay. I'm here."
He whimpers, mumbling into my shirt, as if he didn't hear me. I'm worried he's gone into shock. The reality of shooting Arsen, nearly killing him—because I refuse to believe Arsen is dead no matter what Yevgeniy says—has broken his little mind.
I look up, seething with hatred at the sight of Yevgeniy. He's pacing the room, occasionally checking his phone. He seems to be ignoring us. It's a small favor, but I'll take it.
