I head toward the exit, leaving him curling like a worm on the cold concrete and spit the last words, half-turning my head.
“You are Nothing to me.”
He coughs and fumbles, reaching for his ankle. “You... you think you won?”
That moment, the heavy steel door slams open against the wall. The crash is deafening—a massive, metallic boom that masks the sharper, deadlier crack hidden within it.
The sounds merge into one violent echo.
I expect the noise to fade, but instead, a sharp, white-hot pain crosses my body. It feels like a sledgehammer hit my side.
I stumble, confused as I see David running towards me, his gun already drawn, his mouth moving in a shout I can't hear.
Why is he running? The Russians are here.
I lower my head. A new red spot is rapidly expanding on the white shirt at my lower right side.
Oh...
My knees give in. I catch the rusted support beam to stay upright. The pain is a supernova, but the rage is hotter.
He will not see me fall.
"I got you! I...hah... I got you!" Andy laughs, a wet, broken, bubbling sound.
David is already on him, kicking the gun away, just as the Morozov’s run in through the open bay doors.
Andy's laughter dies in his throat as the Russians lift him up. His face, already bruised, goes bone-white with a new, more profound terror. He understands now.
I press one hand hard against the gushing wound, the suit jacket covering the motion. I feel David at my side, his face pale.
I look at Andy one last time and give him a small, cold smile.
"We'll see who laughs last."
* * *
I hold that cold smile until the Russians drag Andy into a van. They don’t even look at us. Their eyes are on Andy. And when I hear his screams, cut off by the heavy thud of the van door, I know he will not see the sun rise.
The moment they’re gone, the mask of control finally slips and my knees turn to water. I list to the side, but David is there, his shoulder wedging under my armpit, taking my weight.
"I’ve got you," he grunts, his voice tight with a panic I’ve never heard before. "Move your feet, Dorian. We have to get to the hospital. Now."
Every step is an agonizing negotiation with gravity. The pain in my side isn't a sharp stab anymore; it’s a dull, consuming fire that is eating me from the inside out. I look down. My hand, pressed against the wound, is slick and dark. The blood is soaking through my jacket, dripping onto the concrete floor.
Too much,my mind registers with detached, clinical calm.That is too much blood.
"Jesus Christ, Dorian!"
David helps me into the back seat of the SUV and takes off his own jacket shoving it hard against my side.
"Press on this!" he shouts, his face inches from mine. "Do not let go, do you hear me? Press!"
I nod weakly, my fingers curling into the fabric.
The air hits my face, but I don't feel the cold. I feel… floating.
David scrambles into the driver’s seat. The engine roars to life, and the tires scream against the asphalt as he peels out of the lot. He’s driving like a madman, cursing vividly in Italian and English.
