“The mission is us.” His eyes meet mine, and I see the total resolution of a man who has stopped calculating and started believing. “Stay in the seat. Hold the wound.”
He floors the accelerator.
The engine’s roar turns into a scream. We are gaining speed, the heavy steel of the truck’s bumper aimed directly at the center of the bridge. The Petrenko soldiers are shouting now, their weapons coming up as they realize the vehicle isn’t slowing.
I understand the tactic. Vehicular assault. Use of mass as a kinetic penetrator. I wrote the manual on this.
But I was a professional. Nikolai is a desperate man.
“Hold on!”
The first rounds impact the windshield. The safety glass spiderwebs in a brilliant white pattern, but it doesn't shatter—it is reinforced for the construction sites. They are firing high, aiming for the driver’s head, trying to force a flinch.
Nikolai doesn't flinch. He hunches over the wheel, his eyes fixed on the gap between the two sedans.
The guards scatter at the last possible second. One of them stands his ground, his rifle spitting fire, until the bumper of the truck is inches from his knees.
Metal screams against metal.
The impact is a deafening, bone-jarring thud that throws me against the door. Pain flares through my side, a jagged lightning bolt that nearly pulls me into the dark. One of the blocking cars is spun away like a toy, its frame crumpling under the sheer momentum of the truck. The other car gouges a deep, sparking wound into the passenger side door, missing my leg by less than a foot.
We’re through.
The bridge opens up before us, a clear line of gray asphalt heading north. Behind us, the guards are scrambling to their radios, but they don't pursue. They are looking at the wreckage of their checkpoint, trying to understand why a ghost just drove over them.
“We’re clear,” Nikolai says. His voice is shaking now, the adrenaline-wash beginning to recede. “We made it, Alexei. We’re across.”
I try to respond. I want to tell him that cross-border pursuit is still a high-probability event. I want to tell him to check the fuelgauge. But my throat is a desert, and the darkness at the edges of my vision has become a tidal wave.
“Alexei. Stay with me. Alexei!”
I hear him. I simply cannot find the pathway to answer.
The truck stops.
I don't remember the braking. I don't remember the silence returning.
The door opens, and the cold air of the Russian morning hits my face like a benediction. Nikolai is there, his hands frantic as he pulls at my sweater, exposing the ruin of the bandage.
“God. Jesus Christ.” His voice is high, broken. “It’s... there’s so much. Alexei, why didn't you tell me?”
I try to make a sound. It is a wet, rattling gasp.
His hands are on me. He is pressing gauze into the wound. He is tearing open the packets from Katya’s kit. I feel something cold being poured into the meat of my side—antiseptic, likely. The sting is a distant signal from a forgotten world.
“Don’t you die,” he sobs. Something wet hits my cheek. It is warm. He is crying. “Don’t you fucking die on me. Not after this. Not now.”
The observation penetrates the haze. Nikolai Petrenko—the heir I was sent to break—is weeping over my body. His tears are falling into my blood.
And his hands are steady.
There is no tremor. No hesitation. The hands that used to shake when he held a spoon are now performing an emergencypacking with the precision of an operative. I did not create a subject. I did not create a weapon.
I created a partner.
“The... antibiotics,” I whisper.
“I gave you the last dose in the cabin!”
