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“If you think you can protect him from his own destiny … or from me … you have no idea how wrong you are.”
Ruslan clutches me like I’m the only safe thing in the world. Tears run down to my chin. I resist the urge to rub them away.
“You’re a pathetic man who makes a boy do his dirty work.”
Yevgeniy narrows his eyes curiously. “Are you crying because Arsen is dead?”
“He isn’t dead!” I yell defiantly, my voice going hoarse. Mom watches me with abject fear written on her tired face. She’s not afraid for herself … She’s afraid for me.
Yevgeniy’s sneer grows like a weed. It’s a twisted shape from ear to ear that only stops when it can grow no bigger, and I’m surprised I don’t see fangs or a forked tongue when he speaks.
“He is dead. But don’t worry, you’ll see him again.”
My pulse quickens. Ruslan stirs in my arms, his wet cheek turning into my body. He’s seeking comfort, and I wish I had some to give. “What?” I ask worriedly.
I was wrong. His sneer can get bigger. “Haven’t you figured it out by now?”
That’s when I understand.
He’s going to kill me.
39
ARSEN
It's cold.
A thousand hands crush my skull, pressing in, trying to crack my bones and pierce my brain. They're holding down my shoulders... my arms, my calves. I feel like I weigh a thousand pounds, I can’t move no matter how hard I try, and hands shove me downward like they're preventing me from springing straight into the sky.
Through it all comes the pain.
It slashes at my skin in precise strokes, leaving me stripped and exposed. Every nerve is on fire. If this is dying, I wish it will come to an end soon. I'm craving the kind release of death so much that I've stopped thinking about how I got here.
Through a fog, I hear my name.
Someone is shouting it. Over and over and over.
Sharp cracks, like wet wood in a fire, explode near my ear. Slowly the weight lifts off of me. Numbness fades enough for me to open my eyes. I'm not on fire—the burning comes from the cold of the snow I'm lying in. My cheek is buried in it. When I breathe, slush floods my mouth and nose, forcing me to cough in pain.
The haunting cry of my name lingers in my ears. Galina? It must be her. It has to be.
Thinking of her terrified face forces me back to this painful existence. Clarity returns, and with it, come brighter bursts of pain. I look around. In front of me is a dark shape. It's blurry until I squint harder, making myself focus.
A face.
A corpse.
Kostya?
Inhaling in shock, I stare at the wide-eyed, blank expression frozen on my brigadier's face. His waxen face is dull in the dim light of the street lamp. Red lights flicker off of it. They mimic the blood surrounding him in the snow.
How did this happen? And then I remember. Ruslan, his mouth wide with disbelief and fear... the clap of thunder as he pulled the trigger… And then I fell, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as Yevgeniy fled with Galina and the rest.
What happened while I was unconscious? How did Kostya get here, and how did he die?
"Pick him up, we have to move!" a gruff voice demands. Multiple figures hoist me off the ground. I cry out from the unprecedented flares of agony. Each sway of my body tear at the bullet wound, and sends fresh stinging pain searing through my body.
"Get him on the stretcher, and let’s go!" another voice shouts.
