We hit the concrete hard. I wrap my arms around his small torso, pulling him tight against my chest as we roll behind the heavy metal base of an old iron press. The impact jars my shoulder, a sharp pain radiating down my arm, but I don't care. I’ve got him.
I pull him into the hollow space beneath the machinery, my back pressed against the cold cast iron, my body completely shielding his from the room.
He’s shaking. He’s vibrating so violently I can feel his bones rattling against my ribs. I reach up, my hands framing his small face, my fingers tangling in his golden-brown hair. He smells like cheap lavender soap, damp wool, and fear. He’s so small. So incredibly small. For seven years, he’s been a ghost in my head, a photo in a file, but right now, he is warm, solid, and breathing.
"Oleg," I sob, my tears dripping onto his pale cheek. "Oleg, look at me. Look at my face, baby."
The boy stares at me, his blue eyes wide and dark with a panic that makes my chest feel like it’s being ripped open. "W-Who... who are you? Please don’t hurt me…”
"I'm your mom," I say, the words coming out in a broken, wet gasp. I’ve waited so long to say those words, and saying them now, while the air is full of lead and concrete dust, feels like the only real thing in the world. "I'm your mom, Oleg. I’ve been looking for you for so long. I’ve got you. I’m not letting anyone touch you."
"My mom died," he stammers, his small hand clutching my black sweater. "My father said she died in a car."
"He lied to you, baby," I say, pulling him closer until his face is buried in my neck. I can feel his small breaths, fast and hot, against my skin. "I'm right here. I’m never leaving you again. Just hold onto me. Please.”
A shadow falls over the gap in the machinery.
I freeze, my hand instinctively reaching for the heavy iron wrench lying on the floor beside the press. I pull Oleg behind my back, my jaw set, ready to fight with my bare teeth if I have to.
Mikhail slides down beside us.
He looks like a demon. His suit jacket is torn at the shoulder, his face splattered with soot and another man's blood, his blue eyeswild and burning. He’s holding his gun, his chest heaving under his black shirt.
"Are you hit?" he growls, his gaze scanning my body, then dropping to the boy.
"We’re fine," I pant, my hand still clutching Oleg’s blue sweater.
Mikhail looks at the boy. Oleg looks back at him, his small fingers tightening in my sweater. Mikhail reaches out, his large, scarred hand coming down to rest on the boy's head for a brief, heavy second.
"Keep him down," Mikhail says, his voice dropping into a rough, protective register. "The room is almost clear, but Boris is trying to slip out the side. I’m going after him."
He stands up, stepping out from behind the press, and fires two shots over the metal barrier to suppress a guard who was trying to flank our position. The guard drops, and Mikhail sprints toward the side exit where my father’s gray overcoat just disappeared into the dark hallway.
"Oleg," I say, turning back to the boy. "Listen to me. You stay right here. Under this metal. Don't move, don't look, and don't make a sound. Do you understand me?"
"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice trembling.
"I have to help him," I say, kissing his forehead. "I'll be right back. I promise you."
"Don't leave," he whispers.
"I'm not leaving you," I say, my voice turning hard. "Just stay down, okay? I’ll be back."
I crawl out from under the press, keeping low. The main room of the ironworks is a graveyard now. Three of Boris’s guards are down on the concrete, while two more are being held at gunpoint by Konstantin’s men. The smell of gun smoke is thick as fog, the blue-gray haze drifting under the halogen lamp.
I sprint toward the side hallway, silently.
The hallway is dark, smelling of rot and wet brick. I can hear the sound of a struggle from the storage room at the far end—the heavy, wet thud of fists against flesh and the sharp clink of metal against concrete.
I reach the doorway and freeze.
Mikhail and Boris are on the floor. My father has lost his silver-headed cane, his gray overcoat torn and covered in dust, but he’s fighting with the desperation of a cornered rat. He has his hands wrapped around Mikhail’s throat, his thumbs digging in, trying to choke the life out of him.
Mikhail is grunting, his face turning a dark, dangerous red, his bruised ribs clearly making it hard for him to find his leverage. But he’s not done. He brings his knee up, slamming it into Boris’s side with a force that makes my father let out a sharp, wet gasp.
Boris’s grip loosens, and Mikhail yanks his head back, slamming his forehead directly into Boris’s nose.
The sound of bone breaking is loud in the small room. Boris screams, blood spraying from his nose as he rolls away, his hands flying to his face. Mikhail scrambles to his knees, spitting blood onto the concrete, his chest rising and falling in ragged, painful drafts.
