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Dima storms over to him, and with one swift motion, cracks his wrist and grabs the gun from Vigo’s hand. Vigo collapses onto the ground, clutching his wrist and spewing expletives in Russian.
Dima points the gun at Vigo’s forehead and growls, “You were stupid not to take the shot because you know what’s going to happen next.”
“No,” I yell, pounding on the side of the truck. “Please. Don’t do it. He was only doing his job and trying to help me.”
“By shooting me,” Dima roars.
“You’re a fucking lunatic. He didn’t even pull the trigger. Just leave him alone. You got what you came for.”
I watch as Dima backs away, the gun dropping from Vigo’s forehead. “You got lucky this time.”
My shoulders sag, relief flooding my insides.
Vigo is a good man, a family man. He’s worked with my father for years as his driver. I manage a watery smile when he looks up at me, a defeated expression on his worn face.
Dima stalks back to me and throws me into the passenger seat. I kick him in the face before he has a chance to shut the door. I at least get a little bit of satisfaction when I see more blood drip out of his nostril.
Bullseye.
I let out an eardrum-shattering screech that disappointingly does not crack the windows of the truck.
“Scream as loud as you want,” he seethes, yanking my head backward so I’m forced to look up at him…into the eyes of Satan himself. He wipes the blood away with the back of his hand. “Nobody can hear you. And trust me, nobody is ever gonna be able to save you.”
