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As soon as I think the path is clear, I’m going to jump out of the pantry, sprint for the front door, and try to make it to the guard shack. Even if all the guards are dead, the keys to the ATV they use for patrolling the perimeter will be in the shack. I could drive it to the neighbor’s house and…
What comes after that doesn’t matter. Escaping now is what's important.
Mariya. They shot Mariya.
I can’t carry her. If she can’t walk, then I won’t have a choice but to leave her.
The thought leaves a sob stuck in my throat. I have to bite it back as voices fill the kitchen. The pantry doors are designed to blend in with the cabinetry, but it’s only a matter of time before I’m found. My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised the men don’t hear it.
I wait until the voices pass. Someone opens the patio door and says something to the men outside. Then the door closes and… nothing.
No voices. No footsteps.
For now, I’m safe in here. The last thing on earth I want to do is open the cabinet and step into the open air. But I don’t have a choice.
For my baby.
For Mariya.
For Yakov.
I push the pantry door open as silently as possible and step onto the tile floor.
I creep to the entryway and towards the door without making a sound. But the men closed the door behind them. I slowly press the lever and pull. The weatherproofing suctions against the wood, popping before it drags across the tile.
Deep in the house, I hear a male voice yell something.
Shit.
I take off at a sprint.
Fuck being quiet. Fuck being stealthy. I have to move. Now.
I jump down the front steps and sprint down the driveway, my bare feet shredding against the pavement. When the driveway turns, I keep going straight. I run through the grass, telling myself my destination is the guard shack. But I can’t look away from the crumpled form of Mariya lying on the grass.
There’s no time. If I don’t move, I’ll never make it out. I can’t stop.
But I’m close enough to her to hear her wheezing breaths. I can smell the metallic tang of blood in the air.
I drop to my knees next to her before I can stop myself. “Mariya!”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond.
Her face is a pale splotch in the dark grass, but there’s a puddle of blood at the base of her neck. Rivers of it running off of her skin onto the ground. I run my hands over her, but I can’t see where she was shot. I don’t know if she’ll survive.
“Mariya, can you walk?” I ask, knowing she can’t. Her eyes aren’t even open.
And I can’t carry her.
Tears pour down my face. “I’m so sorry,” I choke out. “I’m sorry. I can’t?—”
Before I can figure out what the hell to do, someone slams into me from behind.
I scream, but the sound is muffled by a hood thrown over my head. When I try to pull it off, meaty hands bind my wrists behind my back with zip-ties.
“Help!” I scream, knowing no one can hear me. Knowing there’s no one to help.
My feet drag across the grass as two men drag me by the elbows. They throw me into the back of a car. I just barely manage to roll onto my side and avoid landing directly on my stomach.
