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“But you don’t have to,” he says, echoing something similar I said to him months ago.
So I let him help me. For the first time in a few days, Yakov seems at ease. Helping me gives him some place to deposit all of the nervous energy that has been eating him up.
He cleans me up and then leads me to the bathroom door. He lets go so he can open the door for me. And as he does, I catch movement in the bedroom.
It’s fast. A flash of color. Barely enough to register. Certainly not enough to give me pause.
I walk through the door and into our bedroom just as Yakov shoves into me hard.
And gunfire erupts.
I drop to my hands and knees, catching myself before I fall on my stomach. It could be three shots. Maybe more. They ring in my ears as I try to understand what’s happening.
“Who the fuck are you?” Yakov roars.
Another shot goes off and I scream. I clamp a hand over my mouth. I don’t want to distract Yakov. I don’t want him to worry about me. Not when he’s in a fight for his own life.
A man is standing near the double doors. He raises his arm to fire again, but Yakov kicks his hand. The gun flies out of his grip and smashes against the wall, firing again before it hits the floor.
The man lunges for the weapon, but Yakov beats him to it. He stands up, the intruder’s own gun pointed back at him. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man looks from the gun to the door.
“Don’t waste your time,” Yakov growls. “You’re not leaving. But you knew that already, didn’t you? You knew the moment you set foot on my property that you wouldn’t leave alive.”
Who would accept a mission like that? Who would die just to try to kill me? It doesn’t make sense.
Yakov slowly lowers the gun to the dresser behind him. “But if you answer my questions, I might let you live.”
Pick up the gun! I want to scream. Kill him!
“Yeah, right,” the man snorts.
Then he lunges. He’s trying to get to the door, but Yakov snags his arm. Deftly, he spins the man around so he’s facing the bed. Yakov twists his arm back and up.
The man is only a few feet away from me. He looks younger than I’d expect an assassin to look. He can’t be older than twenty-five with a buzz cut and a tattoo behind his ear.
He meets my eyes for a second before his face creases in pain.
Yakov drives his arm up and a sickening snap reverberates through the room.
“Fuck!” the man moans, sagging.
“Tell me who you are and how you got into my house,” Yakov barks. “Now!”
Where is Nik? Or Isay? Kuzma? Savva? Why isn’t anyone coming to help?
I consider running for help, but I don’t want to distract Yakov. I also don’t want to leave him alone with this intruder. I know there isn’t anything I can do to fight the man off, but I still can’t leave. Not when Yakov is in danger.
“I work for Pavel,” the man manages. He’s panting against the pain. “Pavel sent me. To kill her.”
His eyes meet mine again and they are dark. A depthless black I’ve never seen before. He looks at me like I’m not even human.
Yakov jerks him away from me, spinning him again so his face is smashed against the wall. “Tell me how you got in.”
“No,” the man coughs.
“Tell me how you got in or you’ll die now,” Yakov snarls. “Tell me now or every member of your family will be dead before your body is cold.”
