Clarity comes in short, blinding bursts now—intervals of thirty seconds, maybe a minute—and then the fog returns, gray and suffocating.
The north entrance of the warehouse appears through a curtain of greasy black smoke. A silhouette emerges, running hard, the SVD Dragunov slung across a back that used to be too soft for the weight.
Nikolai.
I lean across the cab, my arm feeling like it’s made of heavy lead, and shove the passenger door open. The motion is a tactical error. A spike of white-hot agony enters my left side, radiating from the wound and blooming into my spine. My vision darkens, the edges turning into a pulsing black vignette. I grip the wheel, my knuckles white, and force the world to stay upright.
He reaches the truck. He vaults into the seat and slams the door with a sound that echoes like a gunshot in the small cab.
The heat coming off him is immense—a residual aura from the explosion. His face is a map of soot and sweat, his skin flushed a deep, feverish red. His eyes are wide, the pupils blown with adrenaline and the intoxicating high of violence successfully executed. He is no longer the Petrenko heir who begged for water. He is the operative who just dismantled a throne.
The smell of cordite and burnt rubber saturates his clothes.
“Go,” he gasps, his chest heaving. “The parley is over. They’re tearing each other apart, but they’ll have the perimeters boxed in five minutes.”
I try to shift the truck into gear. My fingers find the lever, but the signal from my brain is lost in the noise of the infection. My arm moves, a clumsy, sweeping motion that misses the mark entirely.
“Move over,” Nikolai orders. He doesn’t wait for my consent. He is already pushing me toward the passenger side, taking the wheel with a strength that staggers me. “I’m driving. You focus on the bleeding.”
I don’t argue. I lack the oxygen for it. I slide over, my body a heap of failing parts, and lean my head against the cold glass of the window.
The truck lurches into motion. Nikolai navigates the debris of the industrial complex, finding gaps between the shipping containers that I would have chosen if my cognitive functions were intact. He is reading the terrain. He is preempting the pursuit.
Clarity returns for a heartbeat. I catalog: the acrid taste of the smoke. The heavy vibration of the diesel engine. The warmth of the heater starting to fight the winter air.
Then the tunnel closes in again.
My vision is narrowing to a pinpoint. I know the physiology of this: blood pressure is crashing, perfusion to the brain is decreasing. The body is an egoist; it is pulling the resources back from the eyes and the limbs to keep the heart and lungs from stopping.
“Alexei.” Nikolai’s voice is a distance away, muffled as if through water. “Talk to me. Tell me the status of the vessel.”
“Pneumonia,” I slur. The word is full of gravel. “Aspiration. Sepsis is moving... systemic. I cannot calculate the window. Insufficient data.”
“How do I stop it?”
“Antibiotics. IV fluids. A sterile environment we do not possess.” I close my eyes. Opening them is a manual task I can no longer complete. “Drive. The border is the only objective.”
The truck accelerates, the industrial roar of the engine vibrating through my spine. I am cold. I am impossibly cold, despite the sweat soaking my sweater.
Time becomes an erratic, non-linear loop.
I am in the truck. Then I am back in the Kennel, aged ten, standing in the snow and waiting for a command. Then I am in the Processing Room, watching Nikolai through the glass. The intervals between the present and the trauma are shrinking, the walls of my mind collapsing.
“Roadblock,” Nikolai says. The word is sharp, an alarm. “Bridge crossing. Four men. Two vehicles. They’re armed.”
The spike of adrenaline provides a final burst of clarity. I force my eyes open. My vision is a narrow cone, but I see the bridge ahead. The vehicles are black, rugged, marked with a crest I recognize.
“Baranov?” I ask.
“No,” Nikolai says, his voice settling into a cold, hard register. “Petrenko standard issue. My father’s border guards. They don't know the world is on fire yet.”
They are remnants of a dying empire, guarding a border for a man who is currently bleeding on a warehouse floor. They see an industrial truck approaching and assume it is a supply run—until they see the speed.
“Clear the block,” I whisper. I reach for the door handle, my arm moving perhaps ten centimeters before the strength evaporates. “Give me... the Makarov. I can?—”
“No.” Nikolai’s hand clamps onto my arm. It is a grip of absolute certainty. “You can’t even hold your head up. You aren't a weapon today, Alexei. You’re the cargo.”
“The mission requires?—”
