Dmitri signs his name, and the messenger turns, preparing to take a box out of his bag. But before the messenger can get the box fully out, Dmitri stiffens as if struck by a bolt of lightning. Heyanks the box out of the young man’s hands and heaves it away with all of his might. His massive arm then hooksaround my waist, and suddenly, we're running, landing behind a concrete pillar attached to a low wall, where he pushes me down.
I haven’t caught my breath before Dmitri descends on me, his bulk covering my entire body, just as the explosion hits.
The world turns white, hot, and deafening. Air is knocked out of my lungs by an agonizing pressure wave that seems to crush my eardrums and rattle my teeth. The smell of burnt sulfur, dust, and something coppery descends around us.
Debris pelts the few parts of me that Dmitri doesn't cover, a stinging acrossmycheek as Dmitri curls against me,his weight crushing yet protective, as shrapnel pings against his back.
And then silence. A terrible, ringing silence.
Dmitri moves, quick, brutal, practiced. He rolls off me, his gun already drawn. He scans the horizon, his eyes narrowed, his breathing ragged, blood trickling from several places.
I get to my feet after him, still not entirely clear about what just happened, what Dmitri knew that I didn’t. I peer over the wall to see that everything within a small radius has been destroyed. The trees around us are black, a cloud of thick, acrid smoke and tiny particles of dust hang in the air.
The statue that stood beside the street is shattered; all that remains is jagged rubble. The SUV's side looks like a tornado hit it, and the messenger's bike is nothing but a twisted scrap of metal.
“The messenger.”
“Don’t look.”
He turns my head quickly into his chest, but it’s too late. The flash of carnage I saw in that one second was enough to be burned into my memory for all time. The courier didn’t just die; heexploded.
Everywhere.
The nausea hits immediately, and I shove myself away from Dmitri just in time to throw up until my stomach is empty and all I can do is heave bile.
I hear screams, shouting, and sirens. Dmitri's man runs toward us, shouting in Russian. Dmitri answers back roughly, his voice hoarse, tight, furious. He waits until I'm done heaving to hand me a tissue, then pulls me to my feet. I lean heavily against him, feeling the violent rhythm of his heart against my temple.
Fear floods through me, a sudden cold rush that leaves me shaking so hard, my teeth begin to chatter.
“This wasn't an escalation. This was a declaration of war.”
Dmitri’s words are a definitive statement.
And my baby and I are right in the middle of it.
31
DMITRI
The ringing in my earsisnothing compared to the volcanic level of my rage. They both pulse with every pounding beat of my heart, a frantic metronome reminding me that I am still alive. That we are still alive. That Andrey’s plan failed.
I thought perhaps the messenger was a process server, one who delighted in finding me wherever I was, at any time of day. It would not have been the first time. But it wouldn't have been sent through that delivery company. And then the box. I still don't know what tipped me off, what set my reflexes on fire, save forthecaution that has kept me alive all this time. But then I'd heard the faint click as the messengerreached intohis bag.
Imovedon pure instinct, hoping I could throw it far enough away to mitigate the damage, at least to human life. But I hadn't been fast enough, I hadn't thrown it far enough. Andrey hasn't just escalated thisintoa war; he's taken an innocent life.
I'm sitting on the bench inside the back of an ambulance. Thespace is sterile and bright, smelling faintly of rubbing alcohol and plastic, a stark contrast to the smoky airoutside. Clara isinanother ambulance across from me. I haven't takenmy eyes off her as the EMT checks her vitals and patches the few cuts and scrapes she has.
The cold air seems to have followed her into the back of the ambulance. Even from here, I can see her shivering underneath the thin blanket they have draped over her shoulders while the paramedic fastens a blood pressure cuff around her arm.
The EMT in my ambulance is trying to do the same to me, struggling to fit the cuff over my large bicep. As he reaches for a bigger cuff, I struggle to remain calm in a space that feels far too small for me as Itryto keep myself from storming over to Clara andwarningeveryone away from her, like my irrational mind demands, even those who are trying to help her, because no one can be trusted right now.
But Clara needs to be checked out. I have to know—we have to know—that she and the baby are okay. So I sit unnaturally still, my skin dusted with fine, gray residue, my suit torn in several places, a picture of chilled remoteness. But from the way Clara looks at me, she can see the rigid set of my jaw and the almost imperceptible tremor in my hands.
“Your vitals are stable, ma’am,” the paramedic confirms, sliding the cuff off Clara’s arm. “I don't see any sign of concussion, and your blood pressure is good.”
My EMT saysthe same thing to me, but I barely process the words because I’mtoofocused on Clara. Her hand is resting over her abdomen, and I hear her ask, “The baby?” Her voice cracks, and I can see how deeply affected she is by what just happened.
The paramedic smiles gently. “We monitored you both. The baby's heartbeat is strong and steady. Just take it easy, shock can stress the system.You doneed to see your OB/GYN as soon aspossible. And go to the emergency room if you start having any strange symptoms, like cramping or bleeding.”
