Maria
As I crouch behind the tapestry, I listen intently for any signs of movement. The sound of footsteps comes nearer, and I hold my breath, praying they’ll keep going. For a moment, it seems like they have, but then I hear a low chuckle.
The voice says something in Russian, taunting me as its owner searches. My heart leaps to my throat. Bitter fear fills my mouth as my breath quickens.
Panic won’t save me, only action. As I prepare to face whatever is out there, I hear a single gunshot and then a voice. “Ublyudki!” Natasha sneers before I hear her footsteps run away. I slip out from behind the tapestry and tiptoe down the corridor, searching for her.
The back door is wide open, and she must have headed for the range. I run full speed toward the low, squat building, ignoring the cold on the soles of my feet. The door is open, and I get on the ground, crawling, alert to any movement. As I approach the stalls, I hear the unmistakable sound of gunshots echoing. I hold my breath and force myself to continue forward.
“No!” I hear Natasha’s pained voice and see her behind a row of targets. I rush toward her as she crumples to the ground. A spot of red spreads across her gray T-shirt, quickly soaking it as she braces her hands against it. One of Gunsyn’s men stands over her, a cruel smile on his face as he aims his gun for a second shot.
“Natasha!” I scream. I don’t think, grabbing her Glock off the ground. I fire wildly at him. Somehow, every bullet finds its mark, and the man falls to the ground, dead. The motion of his fall disturbs me. It’s as if someone yanked all the bones out of his body. There’s a sickening crunch when his body impacts the ground, and his limbs bend in unnatural ways.
My hands start shaking.
“Well done, naive girl,” Natasha says weakly, trying to push herself up despite the pain.
Her words knock me in the gut, and the gun slips from my trembling fingers. Even in self-defense, the act of killing is disturbing. And it is in that moment that I know I’m not made for this world of violence. But that’s not what sends tears streaming down my face.
If I cannot accept his world of violence, it means that I can never truly be with Mikhail. Suddenly, I remember Sorokin’s cruel words-that I will never be released to Mikhail.
“Maria!” Sorokin and his huge bodyguard run into the building, searching for us.
“Natasha’s hurt!” I cry out.
He emerges from around a corner, his expression alarmed as he takes in the scene. “Get her to the car.”
“A scratch, Radomil Ivanovich” Natasha tries to laugh but winces instead. The huge man reaches for her, pulling her intohis arms like a rag doll, and carries her quickly away. “I’ve had worse.”
“I don’t need Dmitri Chuikov coming after me!” Sorokin shouts and then turns to glare at me. “They’re falling back. You, in my office, where it’s safe.”
“I can’t …” I whimper.
“You must,” Sorokin commands as another guard appears.
He doesn’t understand. The horror of what I’ve done has immobilized me, making it hard to breathe. I stare at that lifeless body on the floor, and the blood moves quickly, heading toward my shoe. Panic rises in my throat like bile, and I feel myself start to sway.
“Radomil Ivanovich,” I choke out, tears streaming down my face. “I don’t belong here. This isn’t who I am!”
“Spokoino, girl.” Sorokin’s hand shoots out to steady me just as my knees buckle under me. His grip is firm and unyielding like he’s holding onto something precious that he can’t bear to let slip away. “Let me help you.”
“I killed him,” I sob, and Sorokin’s brow rises.
In my nervousness, his astonished expression becomes terribly funny. A string of laughter peals out of me before I can stop myself. And in the cold winter air, it sounds like a cackle.
He shoves the guard away, shouting in Russian, and the man runs off. Sorokin lets me lean heavily on him as he guides me from the range. We navigate our way past the bodies, but I freeze when I see a man on the ground, dark hair the same color as Mikhail’s, but his eyes are brown. They stare up at the frozen sky, lifeless and unmoving. Sorokin nudges me forward, but I can’thelp staring at those brown eyes. I blink, and suddenly they look like the same piercing green as Mikhail’s.
And my heart shatters. If it wasn’t for Sorokin guiding me forward, I wouldn’t be able to move.
Together, we trudge past the bodies as if they belong there, like the barren vines of his vineyard.
Shaking, I grip his hand tightly as we step into the house, and he guides me calmly toward his office, where guards stay by the door.
“Maria,” he replies softly, almost paternally. “You are stronger than you think. You did what was necessary.”
I’m given something to drink, and I taste something bitter and strong in it. Whatever is given to me, it takes effect quickly. A strange sense of calm washes over me.
I slump against the chair and feel the alluring pull of sleep coiling around my limbs.
But even as sleep overwhelms me, I can’t get rid of the image of those brown eyes staring lifelessly up at the sky.