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Together, we move in a tight circle as we head back toward the cars, all eyes on the surrounding trees and the suddenly shockingly empty park. Several civilians have attempted to find protection behind large trees or garden walls, but the path is entirely clear of the ambling sightseers and morning joggers now.
“Move, move, move!” I command, and the men pick up the pace, lending Pyotr and his family cover with their bodies as they keep their guns pointed outward to blast a hole through anyone who tries to shoot.
Quick movement draws my eye as someone darts from behind a tree, and I bring my gun up, stopping just in time to realize it’s a jogger trying to make a break for it. The bullet that hits him square in the back a moment later is definitely one of our own.
Blyat.
I don’t like the collateral damage, but I’m not about to rein the men back in. My priority is getting Pyotr to safety. Something whistles past my head, and the man in front of me stumbles, hitting the ground hard an instant later.
Turning in the direction of the attack, I let off three rounds with my Glock and am met with a satisfying cry of pain. By the time I step back into formation, the downed Veles brother is back on his feet, limping heavily as he grips his side.
Thankfully, we’re not too far from the armored Escalades waiting for us in the parking lot. And as soon as Silvia and Pyotr, with Isla in his arms, scramble into the SUV, I pile in beside him.
The tires are screeching from the parking lot as soon as the car is full, the rest of the men piling into the other two vehicles as we tear down the street toward home.
A string of Russian curses issues from Pyotr’s lips as Isla clings to him, her face buried in his neck.
“How did they know?” he growls in Russian, leveling a look in my direction. “We weren’t there an hour.”
Jaw clenched, I shake my head. With such short notice, I don’t see how they could have been waiting for us like that unless someone told them. Someone from this group of men.
“Efrem, you’re bleeding,” Silvia says, her voice tinged with horror as she cuts into the exchange.
Glancing to where she’s looking with mild surprise, I vaguely recall feeling something burning. My arm throbs dully as I rotate my shoulder to inspect the wound. “Just a graze,” I assure her, covering the cut with my palm in an effort to minimize the amount of blood in the car.
Anxiety folds Silvia’s smooth brow, and unshed tears make her eyes glisten. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. “This is all my fault. I should never have insisted…” She swallows hard, looking around the car at the stoic expressions of the men. “I’ll patch you up as soon as we get home,” she assures me.
“I’m fine, gospozha,” I assure her.
Nodding, she swallows hard and turns her attention to Isla, whose sobs have quieted, though she still clings desperately to her father. Pyotr’s expression is tormented as he rubs a hand slowly up and down her back.
“The Zhivoder have never been so willing to attack in broad daylight before.”
My pakhan’s dark tone holds a foreboding that sets my spine tingling. He’s reached the end of his rope. And it’s clear that Pyotr’s attempt to pacify the Zhivoder doesn’t work any better than retaliation.
Mikhail is closing in on us from all sides, and as much as I know Silvia hoped we could avoid war, from where I sit, it’s starting to seem like the only answer.
26
DANI
“I’m home!” I call, tossing my keys in the bowl near the door and turning to head up the stairs to my room.
“Dani, will you come in here a moment?” my mom asks politely. I’m startled to realize my parents are both sitting in the living room, occupying the leather couch where Ben and I listened to so many lectures over the years.
“Sure,” I concede, trying to put a muzzle on my confusion. They never just sit and talk in the living room. That space is usually reserved for long parental lectures and used as a sitting room when we have guests. “What’s up?” I ask, settling onto the edge of the chair across from them.
“Your mother and I have been talking, honey, and we’re starting to really worry about you,” Dad says gently. His hair is nearly all-gray now, having transitioned drastically over the past few months—I imagine from the stress of the election on top of all the worries and loss he’s suffered surrounding his children.
“About me?” I frown. “But I’m home early every day. I’m staying on top of my schoolwork… I’m not even spending time with the Veles family anymore. Why are you worried about me?”
“That’s just it, Dani,” Mom says, her expression serious. “You don’t do anything you used to love doing anymore. You’re not spending time with friends. You haven’t driven out to the nature parks to take pictures in weeks….”
I haven’t dared to after my breakdown the last time I tried to visit Harriman State Park.
“You’re too isolated for a girl your age. You shouldn’t be locked up in your room all the time, hiding away. It’s not healthy,” Dad adds, his concern etching deep lines on his face.
“I’m fine. Really,” I insist. “I just haven’t had much time with school and everything.” It’s a lame excuse, and I know it.
