The ringingin my ears is a high-pitched scream that drowns out the world.
It’s the only sound left. The gunfire has stopped, leaving a vacuum so heavy it feels like it might collapse my lungs. I am staring at the dead man’s chest. The rusted chunk of the plow blade is buried deep in the hollow of his throat, the metal jagged and brown against the black tactical nylon of his vest. I can see the way the blood has already begun to pool in the dip of his collarbone, dark and thick as motor oil.
I did that. My hands are slick with it—his blood, Alexei’s blood, the grime of a floor I’ve been living on for days. I killed a man with a piece of garbage. I threw a rusted secret and it ended a life.
The nausea hits me in a sudden, violent wave. I lean over, my atrophied stomach cramping, but nothing comes up except a dry, bitter string of bile.
“No,” I gasp, forcing my head up. “No time.”
Alexei is dying.
He’s a gray smudge against the frozen brown earth. The pool beneath his left side is expanding with a terrifying, rhythmic speed. It’s too much. I don’t know the medical math—how many liters a man holds, how many minutes he has when a submachine gun tears a hole in his lateral torso—but I know what a drain looks like. And Alexei is draining.
“Alexei.” I crawl to him, my knees scraping over the frost-hardened ruts. My voice is a dry rattle. “Alexei, look at me. Interrogator, look at me.”
His eyes are half-lidded, the pale gray of his irises turning translucent, reflecting the empty winter sky. He doesn’t blink. His chest hitches—a shallow, desperate movement that tells me his lungs are fighting a losing battle against the pressure of the blood.
The phone. The duffel. K-7.
The sedan is fifteen meters away. Fifteen meters of gravel and broken glass. If I leave him, the flow might win before I get back. If I stay, he is a guaranteed corpse.
I don't choose. I move.
I yank my belt free, the leather stinging my numb fingers. I shove my sleeve against the entry wound, feeling the wet heat of it, and wrap the belt around his waist. I pull it until the buckle clicks and the leather bites deep into his side. It isn't a bandage; it's a desperate dam.
“Stay,” I whisper, though he hasn't moved. “Don’t you dare leave me in the dark.”
I run. My legs are weak, the muscles feeling like frayed rope, but the adrenaline is a cruel master. I stumble over a frozen clodof dirt, skinning my palms, but I’m up before I feel the sting. I reach the car, my fingers fumbling at the door handle. The windshield is a web of white cracks. Inside, the car smells of the sex we just had—the salt and the heat—mixed with the sharp, ozone scent of a deployed airbag.
I grab the duffel and drag it out. It’s heavy, snagging on the door frame, spilling a box of rations onto the gravel. I find the phone. Small. Black. A cold piece of plastic that represents every bridge Alexei burned to keep me breathing.
I power it on. The screen is a blinding white square in the gray morning. One contact: K-7.
I press call. Each ring is a hammer blow to my heart. One. Two. Three.
“Da?”
A woman's voice. It’s not motherly. It’s not kind. it’s the sound of a stone being sharpened against a wheel.
“K-7,” I rasp.
There is a beat of silence. Then: “K-7. Proceed.”
“I need help. Alexei Morozov. He’s been hit. He’s losing blood—too much blood. He said to call this. He’s on the ground. Please.”
“Location,” the woman says. She doesn't ask who I am. She doesn't ask how it happened.
“An abandoned farm. A dirt road... we came off the highway ten kilometers back. There's a collapsed barn. Rusted equipment everywhere.”
“I have your beacon,” she says. “The phone pings my receiver. It was built for this contingency.”
“How long?” I’m looking at Alexei. He looks smaller from here. A dark stain on a vast, indifferent landscape.
“Twenty-three minutes. Apply direct pressure. Use the hemostatic agent in the kit. If he goes into shock, elevate his legs. Do not move the torso.”
“Twenty-three minutes? He doesn't have—he's turning blue!”
“Twenty-three minutes,” she repeats, and the line cuts.
