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“The rest?” I shout as I’m running down the stairs.
“They went in the back.” Kostya jumps over the bar and rushes toward the hallway leading to the storage area. “Yuri is alone in there!”
I don’t hear any gunfire as I run after Kostya. That’s not good. He turns left and I follow just a few paces behind. We barge into the back room at the same time, our weapons raised.
One hostile is facedown on the floor near the metal cabinet that stores the cleaning supplies. On the right, there are two more men. One is obviously dead, a hole in his forehead. There is a big red splatter on the wall above him. The one next to him is still alive, but he’s been shot in the thigh and shoulder. I walk toward him and collect his gun and his comrade’s. Another man in cargo pants and a checkered shirt is sprawled on the middle of the floor, several gunshot wounds are in his back. His hands are tied. It’s probably the guy who supplied the drugs.
“Yuri!” Kosta yells somewhere behind me. I turn and a chill flushes over me.
Yuri is sitting on the floor with his back on the wall. His whole torso is covered in blood. I rush to kneel next to Kostya, who rips off his shirt and presses it over the wound in Yuri’s stomach. I take off my hoodie, too, bundle it up and shove it against the other wound in the middle of Yuri’s chest. Kostya’s white shirt over Yuri’s stomach is already saturated, and blood is seeping through his fingers.
“Where the fuck is the doc!” I bark and grab Yuri by the back of his neck. “Yuri! Open your eyes!”
His eyes slowly flutter open, but the look in them is unfocused.
“Stay with us! Yuri! The doc is coming,” I shout.
He tries to tell me something, but it’s too faint.
“Don’t.” I squeeze his neck. “We’ll speak when the doc patches you up.”
Next to me, Kostya takes out his phone and dials. Dear God, there is so much blood. I carefully run my hands over Yuri’s chest and sides and find another wound above his hip.
“Fuck.” I frantically take off my T-shirt, pressing it over the injury. “Yuri, no. Don’t close your eyes. Stay with us.”
He takes a shallow breath and lifts his hand to grab my upper arm, pulling me toward him.
“Albanians,” he says next to my ear, then coughs. “I heard them . . . speaking to each other.”
The hold on my arm loosens, and Yuri’s hand falls to the floor. His dark blue eyes are still on me, but they look glassy. Two rivulets of blood are trailing down from the corners of his mouth.
“Yuri!” I yell into his face. “Don’t you dare die on me! Yuri!”
“Pasha,” Kostya says. “He’s gone.”
No! Yuri is responsible for giving me the only family I’ve ever known—the Bratva. He can’t be gone.
“Yuri!” I shake him.
“Pavel, stop,” A rough voice says behind me, and I look up to find the doc standing there.
“You’re late!” I yell.
“There is nothing anyone could have done,” Doc says, nodding to the floor. “He lost too much blood.”
I slowly lay Yuri down, stand up, and head toward the opposite end of the room. Grabbing the only living Albanian by his neck, I punch him in the face with all my strength.
“Why?” I ask, then punch him again. “Why were you here?”
“To dispose . . . of Davis,” he mumbles.
I punch his head again. And again.
“Pasha! That’s enough!”
I ignore Kostya’s yelling and continue hitting the motherfucker while the smell of blood invades my nostrils. Someone tries to shove me away, but I shake them off and keep plowing my fists into the Albanian’s face until all that is left of it is a mass of blood and red flesh.
When I’m done, I let the body fall to the floor and head toward one of the cabinets. I take out two white linen tablecloths and carry them to where the doc is kneeling next to Yuri’s body. I use one to wipe the blood off my friend’s face, then close his eyes and carefully cover him with the clean linen.
