Volk
SIX DAY WAR BY COLONEL BAGSHOT
I pullthe trigger before I can second-guess the decision. The shot hits the Pakhan in the shoulder, and he spins with the impact, crashing against the car behind him like a broken marionette. Blood blooms across his expensive shirt in a beautiful pattern . His gun clatters to the floor and skitters across concrete into shadows where it becomes irrelevant.
"What the fuck?" He clutches the wound with his other hand, applies pressure while his face contorts into something between rage and genuine confusion. "What are you doing?"
"Correcting a mistake." I keep my weapon trained on his chest. My hand doesn't shake. Never has. Never will. "One I should have fixed ten years ago."
His men freeze in the doorway behind us. Five of them, all armed, all waiting for orders that won't come because their boss is bleeding and trying to understand why his most trusted soldier just put a bullet in him. The math is simple. They can shoot me, but I’ll get one last kill shot off before I go down. The Pakhan knows this. I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes even as blood seeps between his fingers.
"You fucking?????????." The words is pained. "I gave you everything. I made you everything you are." He spits the words like venom.
I don't look at Sofiya. I can't afford the distraction when five guns are pointed in our general direction. "You ordered me to kill her in the desert because you couldn't control your own ego. Because you were too much of a fucking coward to do it yourself."
"She's nothing!" He tries to push off the car but fails, sliding back down with a grunt that sounds almost surprised. "A whore’s bastard. You're throwing away everything for damaged goods."
"She survived." My jaw tightens hard enough to hurt. "She survived because she's stronger than any of us. Came back and got close enough to kill you. That's not damaged goods. That's a warrior."
The Pakhan lunges for his fallen gun. The movement costs him, and I see it in how his face goes gray, how his breathing turns ragged. But he's stubborn. Always has been. His fingers close around the grip, and I shoot again. This time I hit him in the leg, just above the knee. Careful to miss the femoral artery because I need him alive long enough to be useful. He goes down screaming, clutching his leg while blood pulses through his fingers. The men around him surge forward, but I shake my weapon, reminding them who’s in charge here.
"Don't." My voice dropping to a glacier tone. I'm not asking. They freeze. Look at each other, then look at the Pakhan writhing on filthy concrete.
"Viktor." The Pakhan gasps the name, forcing himself to focus on the biggest man. "Don't let them leave."
I grab Sofiya's arm and pull her toward the door. She moves stiffly because of her injuries, but she doesn't resist. Doesn'tspeak. Just lets me guide her in a careful circle around the cluster of armed men.
"You'll be hunted." Viktor's face remains neutral. "The entire Bratva will want your head. We will rain fire down on you like you have never seen." His eyes briefly dart to Sofiya before coming back to meet mine.
"Let them try." I pull Sofiya closer and feel her warmth against my side despite the blood and pain radiating from her body.
Viktor's eyes narrow slightly and understanding blooms there alongside calculation. I don't wait for further discussion , just keep moving with Sofiya tucked against my side. My weapon stays ready and my eyes track every movement in my peripheral vision. These men are dangerous but they're also pragmatic. They won't shoot if it means their boss dies choking on his own blood.
Once we’ve made it safely out of sight, the night air hits us like absolution. Cool and clean after the stench of violence and old concrete. Sofiya's legs threaten to give out, but I catch her weight easily, supporting her without slowing our pace.
"Can you make it?" I ask.
"I'm making it now." Her voice comes sharp despite obvious pain.
"That's not what I asked."
She doesn't answer, just keeps her head held high through sheer spite that would be impressive if it wasn't so fucking stupid. Her knee is almost destroyed, her ribs are probably broken, and she's bleeding from a dozen cuts that need stitches. But once again she refuses to give in, to die. I respect that. Even though I hate it. When will she have suffered enough?
The car materializes in the darkness. A nondescript sedan that costs too much but looks like nothing special. Exactly thevehicle that disappears in traffic. I open the passenger door and help her inside despite her attempt to do it herself.
"Where's Angel?" She finally looks at me with eyes glassy from pain or shock or both.
"With the doctor.” I glance at my watch. “He’s probably stabilized her and moved by now. He’s taking her to a safe place." I close her door and move around to the driver's side with my weapon still drawn. "She's safe." I keep the ‘hopefully’ to myself.
I slide behind the wheel, start the engine, and pull away from the curb with practiced calm that belies the adrenaline screaming through my system.
"You didn't kill him." Sofiya's voice carries something I can't quite identify. Disappointment? Relief? Calculation?
“We both know that kill doesn’t belong to me.”
"So, we just wounded him and ran away." She laughs but the sound holds no humor. "Ten years of planning and it ends with him alive and us fleeing like cowards."
"It ends with us breathing." I take a corner too fast. "It ends with him bleeding and scared and realizing his most trusted second just betrayed him. That's not nothing."
