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I even tuck my legs and arms so that I’m entirely hidden and not in his range of sight anymore.
But in doing so, I scrape the fresh wound against the tree. A scream bubbles in my throat, but I bite my lip to suppress it.
“Lipovsky, you fucking—”
“Did you get him, Captain?” I ask in a drowsy voice, definitely cutting him off, and that would’ve gotten me in deep shit any other time, but these are special circumstances. “Tell me you got the asshole…”
My breathing slows and so does my pulse, but when my body starts to lean sideways, I forcibly shake my head and remain in the safe position.
“Of course I did, but he’s not alone.”
“Sorry, Captain. I don’t think I can distract the other ones.”
“No shit.” There’s a dark intonation in his voice. “How hurt are you?”
“Shot to the upper back, the shoulder, I think, but it’s manageable.”
“Like fuck it is. You’re barely conscious.”
“Ha… Guess that means my attempts to sound strong failed…”
“Don’t you dare lose consciousness, Lipovsky. That’s an order.”
“You…called me Aleksander earlier…” My eyes droop. “I like that better…”than the fake last name.
No idea why I told him that, but it seemed imperative for some reason.
At least Aleksander is the male version of my real name, and Sasha is the diminutive form for both.
“Lipovsky!”
Aleksandra. My name is Aleksandra, damn it.
But I don’t have the strength to say that as my head lolls to the side. Some shots sound around me, continuing the symphony of war.
I try to lift my rifle even when I can’t open my eyes. It’s instinct, I think. The need to remain alive no matter what.
But my fingers barely move.
I don’t know how much time passes or if it passes at all before I strong arms surround me.
They feel big and cage-like, but instead of trapping me, they’re holding me up.
And then his voice, one made of a strange mix of nightmares and lullabies, rings in my ear. “What the fuck am I going to do with you?”
9
KIRILL
The fucking fucker.
I swear to everything that’s unholy, I’m going to murder the fuck out of him if he’s alive.
It takes me more time than I have to spare to reach the slimy bastard. First, I had to eliminate the sniper who seemed to have a personal grudge against him—probably because he killed one of his friends or some fucking shit.
The way he was aiming at Lipovsky was an act of pure vengeance. He wouldn’t have stopped until he deemed that he’d paid.
Then I had to kill the three insurgents who came rushing for his life while he was slumbering under the tree like some sort of Sleeping Beauty.
