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Then pain explodes across my temple.
And everything goes black.
10
MISHKA
Every inch of me screams in protest as I rise from the darkness like a drowning man surfacing. My muscles tense, my body jolting as I find myself suspended upside-down above the crushed roof of our SUV.
“Blyat,” I groan, my head throbbing with the force of my heartbeat from hanging the wrong way for too long. My ribs are on fire, my lungs burning in a way that tells me I’ve at least cracked a few. Hopefully, they’re not broken completely and in danger of puncturing a lung.
Digging into my pocket, I find my switch blade and pull it out, cutting myself loose from the seat belt with one powerful jerk.
Tucking my head, I hit the car’s ceiling with my shoulder first, then twist until I’m upright inside the cramped space. The two men remaining in the car with me are definitely dead, each with a bullet hole that killed them long before the fall. I have no clue what happened to the third man who was in the car when we went over the edge.
But Alina’s still in the car, and when I press my fingers anxiously to her throat, I feel a strong, steady pulse.
“Alina,” I murmur, anxiety knotting my stomach when she doesn’t respond. As gently as I can, I inspect her body for injuries and find a nasty gash on the left side of her head. Right along her hairline, I could easily have missed it in the dark, but the slick wetness tells me she’s bleeding at a steady pace.
She needs help, but I don’t want to move her if her injuries are more severe than what I’ve found after a rudimentary inspection.
Turning my attention to the door on my side, I kick out what remains of the fractured glass and worm my way through the narrow opening. It’s pitch-black outside, and we’re at the bottom of some kind of ravine.
Above me, the report of weapons’ fire continues in quick bursts, lighting the sky occasionally, though I can’t even see the road we fell from. But what concerns me most is the smell of something burning, and when I turn toward the front of our mangled Escalade, the hood is smoking steadily.
I can’t leave Alina in the car. Even if she has some kind of neck injury, it would be better to risk moving her than to wait until the car catches fire or explodes. Rounding the front of the vehicle, I come to her door and jerk the handle.
It takes a considerable amount of force to get the bent frame to budge, but with a snarl, I rip it open to find her dangling in the same position I left her in.
“Alright, radnaja,” I mutter, doing my best to support her weight before I cut her free of her seat belt.
She sags into my arms as soon as the restraint releases, dead weight that makes my ribs throb in protest. With a grunt, I pull her from the vehicle as carefully as I can.
Glancing over my shoulder at the ongoing conflict above, I carry her a ways away from the car and under the protection of the trees. Then I lower her to the ground. She looks so delicate, vulnerable in her unconscious state.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I attempt to turn on the flashlight to give myself some light while I tend to her injuries. But the screen is shattered, the device dead entirely. Frustration boils up inside me, and I toss it aside.
I guess I’ll be doing this by moonlight.
Grasping her face as gently as I can, I tilt her head to look at the cut on her temple. It’s not too long, but I can’t tell how deep it is without better light and cleaning it. For now, my best bet is to just slow the bleeding until we can get help.
Removing my tie, I wrap it carefully around her head like a bandage, ensuring the wound is covered before creating a knot at the nape of her neck. Air hisses between her teeth as I pull the fabric tight, and suddenly, Alina tenses, her eyes flying open as she jerks away from me.
“Get off me!” she screams, scrambling out of reach as she looks around wildly.
I freeze, wanting to go after her but worried she might bolt into the woods if she thinks I’m here to hurt her.
“You’re okay, Alina. It’s me,” I growl, showing her my hands as I watch her closely.
Her eyes dart back to my face, and recognition dawns in them, allowing her shoulders to soften and lower. Then she looks back toward the battered Escalade behind me. She pales visibly, her eyes following the wrecked SUV up the hill toward the street and the waning firefight far above.
“Oh, my God, my family,” she murmurs, her voice choked as her eyes begin to water. “They need help.” She rises, and her feet carry her forward as if they have a mind of their own.
“You need to stay put and keep your voice down,” I counter, snagging her wrist and pulling her back under cover. “We can’t help them right now, and if the men who ambushed us win, they might come looking for survivors.”
Chin trembling as Alina meets my eyes, she nods. Then her arms wrap protectively around her waist as she looks back up toward the suddenly silent road nearly a hundred feet above us.
Turning my gaze toward the hill as well, I assess whether we even have a chance of climbing up it. It’s steep, very steep, with several ledges that might require rock climbing equipment to scale them.
