“We don’t have eight hours.” Chernov’s eyes move to Roman, back to me. “Vadim knows we’re compromised—”
“Then we move in six.”
“You can’t make that decision. You’re not—”
“I’m not what?” I take a step toward him. “I’m not Bratva? Am I not a soldier? I’m not anyone who matters?”
Another step.
“I spent the last hour with my hands inside his abdomen.” My voice is cold, and I don’t recognize it. “I jumped into a frozen river and dragged him out of the dark. I beat his heart until it remembered how to work. I cut a bullet out of his gut while hescreamed and stitched him closed with hands I had to scald just to make them work again.”
Another step. Close enough that if he reaches for me, I’ll put a round through his throat.
“I didn’t pull him from hell just to let you bury him.”
Chernov doesn’t move.
Behind me, Roman’s breathing changes. Steadier. Deeper.
“The Pakhan is alive because of me.” I lower the gun slowly. Making every man watch me choose to stop threatening them. “He’ll stay alive because of me. And when he wakes up, he’s going to finish what he started.” I meet Chernov’s eyes. “The only question is whether you’re standing beside him when he does it, or underneath the rubble.”
Silence.
Then Chernov does something I don’t expect.
He drops to one knee.
“Tsaritsa.” The word carries weight I don’t fully understand. “We’re yours.”
One by one, the men behind him kneel. Not all at once—some hesitating, some quick—but they kneel. To me. To the blood-soaked chemist who just threatened to kill them for looking at her husband wrong.
I feel exhausted. The only thing keeping me upright is Roman’s hand still warm in mine.
“Get me clean water. More bandages. Whatever antibiotics you can find.” I turn back to Roman. “And someone bring me vodka. I need to clean his wounds. And to drink.”
I sink onto the floor beside the table and take his hand again.
“It’s going to be a long night.”
ROMAN - Khimki Factory, 03:14
Iwake up to footsteps.
Not Anya’s—I know the sound of her by now. These footsteps are heavier, getting closer to wherever I’m lying on what feels like cold metal beneath my back.
My right hand moves toward the gun that should be under my pillow.
My fingers don’t respond.
I try again, brain screaming the command at muscles that refuse to listen. Nothing happens, not even a twitch, the entire hand lying dead at my side like it belongs to someone else’s body. The footsteps are getting closer, and I can’t grip the fucking weapon because my hand won’t obey me.
My left hand shoots across my chest instead, clumsy and weak but at least the fingers close—barely, shakily, but they close—around the grip of the Makarov tucked against my ribs. I’m rolling off the table before the footsteps reach the door, and my shoulder lights up with agony that whites out my vision for two full seconds.
The footsteps stop.
I look up from the floor where I’ve landed in a heap, propped against the desk leg with the gun wavering in my left hand. Luka is standing in the doorway holding a cup of something that steams in the cold factory air, his face carefully blank in a way that tells me he saw everything.
“Pakhan.” He keeps his voice neutral, but I can hear the concern underneath it. “You’re awake.”
