Good girl.
He was no different from the twisted men he patched up, so that meant he was getting taken out, too. I put him down with a shot to the chest, right through the heart, before he could take his next breath.
The doctor dropped hard, supplies scattering across the concrete. The shot was suppressed but not silent. In a tight structure like this, the sound still cracked and echoed down the corridor, and somewhere deeper in the house, voices stopped.
Then sharp, irritated curses rang out. I didn’t hesitate as I stepped over the doctor’s body and moved fast down the hallway. A door opened ahead of me, and a man stepped out,gun already half-raised, eyes scanning toward the fallen doctor. He saw the blood first, then turned his attention to me.
I fired once, and the round took him high through the face. He shouted a surprised sound and slammed against the wall hard, the impact reverberating loudly as his body slid down the wall.
From the far end of the hall, Andrey’s voice rang out, sharp now, no more controlled calm. “Kakogo khrena zdes’ proiskhodit?”What the hell is going on here?
The structure was relatively secure but not a fortress. It was built like a negotiation chamber. Clean lines, long sight lines, glass overlooking water, and minimal cover. Which meant once I committed, shit was going to hit the fan. I rounded the last corner and saw him.
Andrey stood near the main room, shirt open, fresh bandaging wrapped around his side, but blood already seeping through. One of his remaining men stood near him, gun drawn, eyes wide. Fuck, he couldn’t be more than twenty-five and clearly minimally trained for how scared shitless he looked.
This time there was no illusion of stealth. The guard fired first, and the shot cracked through the room, deafening in the enclosed space. His aim was off, and the bullet slammed into a lamp, glass shattering, and the smell of gunpowder wafting instantly through the air.
I dropped to one knee and returned fire, controlled and tight. My round caught him in the upper chest, and the young man staggered backward into a table before sliding down, taking the piece of furniture with him. He left a thick smear of blood behind him.
Andrey dove behind a concrete column near the river-facing wall, grabbing the fallen guard’s weapon as he went. The room was already loud with gunfire. Glass shattered somewhere behind me, and plaster exploded off the wall near my shoulder,debris raining down in sharp fragments. There was no hearing anything beyond the shots and the blood pounding in my ears.
I released an empty mag and inserted a new one. I shifted left, keeping low, firing once to force him tighter behind cover. He returned it immediately, controlled and disciplined as any Bratva member was trained. Pain flared sharp along my ribs where one of his earlier rounds had grazed me, but I ignored it and adjusted my angle, advancing two careful steps to keep the column narrow between us.
He leaned out and fired again, and the round hit me low in the side, not clean through but hard enough to stagger me half a step as heat bloomed under my shirt. I stayed upright and fired back, clipping the concrete near his forearm. He swore and pulled in tight again.
The house felt smaller now, and the air became thicker. He was calculating his next move. I could see it in the slight tilt of his head and the way his eyes tracked every single thing in the room. He was deciding whether to rush me or try to make a getaway because he wasn’t getting out of this even if it killed me.
That was when movement flickered at the edge of my vision, just a shadow shifting from the hallway where the bodies lay. I shifted only my eyes so I could see clearly. Zoya. She stood low, careful, breathing hard but controlled as she stayed hidden. The guard I’d dropped earlier lay on his back near the corridor, his gun still trapped loosely in his hand. I held my breath as I watched her pry it free.
Andrey didn’t see her. He was locked on me as he stepped out from behind the column to take his shot, and I saw Zoya shift in my peripheral vision. I tried to keep his focus where it belonged, and we both fired at the same time. He got me in the leg, and my knee dipped and gave out as blood loss crept in, but I forced myself upright.
I squeezed the trigger as Andrey did, and a third shot cracked through the room in the same breath.
The shot wasn’t wild or rushed. It hit him high in the chest, and he stumbled back into open space, shock tearing across his face. His weapon wavered but didn’t drop as he tried to correct his stance.
A shot fired again, lower this time, and Andrey’s gun slipped from his hand and skidded across the ground. That was when Andrey looked at her, confusion and shock at the fact Zoya was the one who’d fired.
He dropped to one knee, one hand pressed to his chest, blood pouring between his fingers. When he collapsed to the ground, Zoya stepped closer, still holding the gun the way I’d shown her, her fingers twitching around the gun and her pointer finger ever so gently tapping at the trigger, trying to decide whether to pull it again or not.
She said nothing, but her mouth parted as if she were trying to breathe through something too thick to swallow. The gun still shook in her hands, and her eyes were wide, locked on her father like she couldn’t quite make sense of what she’d just done.
“Zoya,” I said gruffly. “Give me the gun, malyshka.” I didn’t want this darkness to take her under.
Andrey opened his mouth, but before he got a word out, she fired again. The round hit, and Andrey went still on the ground, blood spilling, blooming red and violent.
The house went quiet except for our breathing. I stayed still for another second, gaze locked on Zoya and how she was processing this. She exhaled, and the weapon dipped toward the floor as if it weighed too much for her to hold any longer.
I rose and straightened, pushing through the pain, and crossed the space between us. Blood soaked through my shirt and down my hip, but I barely felt it compared to what I felt looking at her.
She wasn’t staring at Andrey’s body anymore and instead had her focus on her hands, as ifshe didn’t recognize they were hers. Her throat worked repeatedly as if she might be sick, but my girl was strong. She didn’t cry, didn’t scream. She was slowly processing what was happening. I knew the shock was settling in, cold and hollow.
In this moment, Zoya realized she had killed her father. Not the monster he truly but the father she wished she had growing up. The fantasy one who protected and loved her unconditionally.
I gently took the gun from her hand, her fingers icy-cold, her eyes wide and her face pale.
“It’s done,” she whispered, but it didn’t sound like victory. It sounded like disbelief, as if she were trying to convince herself the world hadn’t just split open beneath her feet… like she hadn’t killed someone.
I looked at Andrey’s body on the floor then back at her.
