"Ivan!" I shout over the gunfire. "The recorder?—"
He sees it. I watch as his eyes lock on it, registering what just vanished, his jaw tightening as if something inside him has snapped.
For a brief moment, the future we discussed this morning—evidence, father, trial, proof—disappears into the plastic and smoke.
"We'll deal with that later," he says, his voice firm and unyielding. "Move."
The back door is our only escape route.
It leads to a covered walkway connecting the cabin to the shed. Twenty feet of exposed ground feels like a kilometer when bullets are flying.
The fire behind us spreads rapidly, and smoke fills the room.
I go first.
The first bullet whizzes past my head, close enough to make my ear ring. The second grazes my arm, leaving a hot line across my bicep that I notice only because my sleeve grows wet.
I return fire, dropping a man who was creeping toward the walkway from the left.
Ivan's shots follow mine, sharp and controlled, suppressing the treeline just enough for us to run.
We reach the walkway.
Halfway across.
Then it happens.
A shot strikes my thigh.
The impact is blunt and jarring, like a sledgehammer hitting my leg. My knee buckles, and my body tries to keep moving but fails. The world tilts, and the boards slam into my chest.
I hit hard enough to knock the breath out of me.
Blood floods down into my boot, hot and thick. The wound is deep, and my leg feels foreign—like a piece of machinery that just broke.
Pain arrives a moment later, belated but overwhelming, white-hot and spreading.
"Maksim!"
Ivan is beside me in two steps.
His hands grip my shoulders, attempting to lift me. I try to stand, but my leg betrays me. It offers no support, no leverage, only agony.
Behind us, the cabin is engulfed in flames—windows belching fire, smoke rising into the sky. The structure groans like it's both alive and dying.
In front of us, the treeline shifts.
They're advancing, not running, but closing in. Confident now, because they saw me fall.
I count what I can see: five, six, then more shadows emerge from the trees.
My throat tastes like metal and smoke.
This is the turning point.
Two men in a cabin might get lucky.
One man dragging a bleeding body across a walkway does not.
