Two meters. One.
His good hand hit the man once, clean and precise, the heel of his palm driving in behind the ear. Balance went first. Sound never got the chance. Pav caught the phone before it clattered on the ice, then grabbed the man’s weight and lowered him behind the UAZ, out of sight from the stolovaya.
The man’s cigarette rolled.
Twelve seconds from approach to completion.
Not his best time. The fever was costing him.
He patted the man down. Phone. Wallet.Keys.
Perfect. He blinked sweat from his eyes. One thing today that didn’t require bleeding for.
He opened the driver’s door and slid in. His vision flashed white. No blur or fade. Total whiteout—everything erased in a single pulse of heat behind his eyes. His hands were no longer connected to his brain—just hanging there, keys slack between his fingers.
One second. Two.
The sounds of the town reached him from very far away. Wind. A door slamming.
Three seconds.
The white receded like the tide, pulling back in a wash. The dashboard swam back into focus. He still held the keys. His hands were shaking—not the fine tremor of cold but the deep, involuntary shudder of a body burning through its last reserves.
He turned the key, and the engine revved. He shoved it into gear, angled the nose toward the treeline, and drove.
Behind him, the apteka door burst open. A shout—loud, abrasive, Russian. Then another voice from the stolovaya. Then a third.
Pav didn’t look back. He floored the accelerator, and the UAZ fishtailed on the icy road, straightened, then climbed the hill toward the trees. He brought it to a skidding halt.
“Harper! Now!”
She ran. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten. She threw herself into the passenger seat, and the door wasn’t closed when he floored it again, and the UAZ surged forward.
The town shrank in the mirror. For one sweet moment, they were clear. Headlights blinked bright in his rearview mirror. A second UAZ pulled out from behind the stolovaya, already accelerating, closing the gap.
“Pav.” Harper twisted in her seat, looking backward. “They’re following.”
“I see.” Headlights bounced on the rough road behind them, growing brighter, the distance shrinking.
He pushed the UAZ harder. The engine screamed in protest, and the steering fought him on every curve, pulling left, the suspension bottoming out on frozen ruts.
His vision doubled. Two roads. Two center lines. He blinked and it resolved, then it doubled again.
“How close?” His voice sounded distant to his own ears.
Harper craned over her shoulder. “Two hundred meters. Maybe less.”
The road was narrow and rough. Trees pressed in on both sides. The UAZ behind was gaining. Pav fought to keep reality from splitting in two.
“Pav,they’re closing.”
He knew it and hated the fear in her voice. The road straightened. He stomped on the gas, and the UAZ responded with everything it had, which wasn’t enough.
“One hundred meters, Pav.”
He was aware, distantly, that he loved the sound of her voice.
That was probably the fever.
