AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Daddy?”
Slava’s tiny figure is briefly outlined by the glow of the flames, and then he steps through the burning hole, disappearing outside.
Fuck it. Coughing hard, I jerk up to my feet and launch into a sprint.
If I catch a bullet, so be it.
I burst outside, gun at the ready, and I see him.
My son, standing just a few meters away, his small face brightening at the sight of me.
“Daddy!” He waves a knife in the air. “I came to help—like Superman.”
My heart thunders with a mix of fear and relief as I start toward him—only to freeze in place as a dark figure melts out of the shadows behind him, gun pointed at me.
“Come here, Slavchik,” Alexei Leonov says, pulling off his face mask with one hand to reveal black eyes glowing with the light of the sputtering flames behind me. “You’re safe now, kid. Your uncle’s come to take you home.”
56
Chloe
Forgetting everything, I hike up the long skirt of my dress and climb up the ladder, my terror growing as I climb through the open ceiling door and thicker smoke envelops me, the acrid smell snaking into my nostrils and making my eyes burn.
“Slava!” I cough, peering through the hazy, red-tinted darkness. “Slava, come back!”
Nothing. No response.
“Chloe, wait!”
Ignoring Alina’s cry, I climb out completely and survey the smoky hell that is the inside of the garage. It’s like a scene from a disaster movie, complete with plaster-covered cars with shattered windows and flickering flames by the big metal door—a door that sports a giant, burning hole.
My pulse skyrockets and I launch into a run, ignoring the shards of glass and rock-like bits of broken concrete biting into my bare feet. The pain is nothing compared to the dread sawing at my stomach.
That hole is where Slava must’ve gone.
He must’ve come up here right after the explosion and run outside, straight into God knows what danger.
At least there’s no sound of gunfire now—but that could change at any moment. Coughing, I pull the heavy gun out of my bodice and grip it tightly with both hands, lest it slips from my sweaty fingers.
“Slava!” I run through the hole, ignoring the flames eating at its edges—only to skid to a halt, gripped by horror.
In front of me is a scene straight out of a western: Nikolai and an unknown man, guns pointed at each other in a lethal standoff, with wide-eyed Slava in the middle.
57
Chloe
Hyperventilating, I bring up my gun, pointing the barrel at the stranger. “Drop your weapon and back away!”
I mean to sound authoritative, but instead, my words come out in a hoarse, trembling croak, my throat raw from smoke.
The man’s dark gaze flicks toward me for a millisecond, but he doesn’t move an inch. “Idi syuda, Slavchik.” His deep voice is eerily calm. “Bystro.”
To my shock, I recognize the first portion of the Russian phrase.
Come here, the stranger said, using another diminutive of the child’s name.
Nikolai’s gaze doesn’t leave his opponent’s face, though I know he’s aware of my presence. I can feel the lethal tension emanating from him, see his hard jaw flexing.
“My son isn’t going anywhere with you,” he growls in English at the stranger. “Slavochka, get behind me. Go now.”
Slava looks confused, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two men. “Dyadya Lyosha? Papa?”
Dyadya. I strain my brain for a translation, and then it comes to me.
Uncle, that word means. And Lyosha is probably diminutive for Alexei.
Nikolai was right. It is the Leonovs—or at least one of them.
Slava’s uncle.
The gun is heavy in my outstretched hands, much heavier than they portray in movies. My shoulders and neck muscles are beginning to ache, my forearms tiring from gripping the weapon so tightly. Ignoring the discomfort, I keep it pointed at the man, my mind spinning frantically, trying to think of a way out of this fucked-up situation.
After everything Nikolai has told me about the Leonovs, I half expected horns and a tail, and there is something demonic in Alexei’s harsh features—especially his eyes. They’re so dark they appear black, making me think of tar pools in the depths of a volcano, complete with a reddish cast from the flickering flames reflecting in them. Yet the man isn’t ugly, far from it.
If Nikolai hadn’t set an impossibly high bar for male beauty, I might’ve found Slava’s uncle dangerously attractive.
Not that his looks matter when he’s holding that gun pointed at Nikolai—and his thickly muscled arms don’t show any signs of tiring. Neither do Nikolai’s. Both men might as well be made of steel, their faces taut with mutual hatred.
Slava, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to partake in that sentiment. If anything, he appears torn between his father and his uncle, his head swiveling back and forth, his posture speaking of bewilderment at the tension between the two adults rather than fear of the invader.
