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He’s always on the brink of losing control, except no one wants to see what he looks like when he becomes completely unhinged.
I know what that looks like, and it’s the most disturbing thing I’ve ever witnessed.
Even his closest friends are afraid of him, and for good reason.
Chapter 19
Willow
When Saturday comes around, I’m not surprised to find a crowd of protesters picketing outside the gates of the President’s Estate. Most of their cardboard signs appear to be in Russian or German, but a couple are written in English.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FUTURE TYRANT
WHILE WE STARVE, YOU EAT BIRTHDAY CAKE
When Ivan turns into the driveway of the estate, he slows to avoid the protesters crowding the car. Angry faces peer into the window, shouting in foreign languages and tapping on the glass.
“Keep your head down, Miss Willow,” Ivan says.
He’s on edge, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens.
I bend over and press my head against the passenger’s seat in front of me, hugging my knees to stare at my shoes. The heels are sharp enough for me to wield as a weapon if I need it.
A palm comes down on the hood with a loud smack, and I yelp in surprise. The banging crescendos as more protesters join in, knocking on the doors and windows with their fists.
Ivan slams on the breaks, unable to move any further into the crowd blocking the driveway.
My body trembles as I bring my hands over my ears, trying to shut out the aggressive sounds closing in around the car. I squeeze my eyes closed, but my heart is racing so fast I’m on the verge of a panic attack.
These protests never get out of hand. Until tonight, every protest I’ve witnessed was peaceful, but the roiling fury from the crowd has reached a tipping point.
And it’s as frightening as Alek can be.
Someone starts pulling on my door handle from the outside, and with a scream, I scramble into the middle of the backseat. The doors are locked, but a child saftey mechanism might not stop their determination to get inside.
The car is shaking from side to side, and boots stomp on the roof above us.
“Ivan, what do we do?” I shout.
“Stay calm,” he answers. He reaches into the center console and pulls out a handgun. “It looks like the President’s Guard is—”
I don’t hear the rest of Ivan’s sentence because a gunshot rattles the car. The air is sucked from my lungs, but I manage to throw myself onto the floorboards, curling up into a facedown fetal position with my hands on my head.
The shot rings out, and the crowd starts shrieking and scattering in all directions. Horrific chaos erupts around the vehicle as more gunshots go off, and I scream.
Whoever was on the roof of the car lands with a sickening thud above my head. I look up in time to see a limp figure fall past the window, his corpse thumping against the door on the way to the ground.
Smeared blood streaks the glass, and my scream turns silent in terror.
A uniformed guard comes up to the window and starts shouting at Ivan, urging him to drive forward to safety. Ivan presses on the gas and speeds off down the driveway further into the estate.
“Willow, are you okay?” he calls.
“Yeah, are you?”
“Yes. As soon as we reach safety, I will call your father.”
Ivan doesn’t slow down until we reach the iron gate marking the entrance to the estate. There are only two armed guards stationed here this time, and I assume the rest have gone to deal with the violence behind us.
