“Oleg!” I shout. “Kirill!”
Something thuds from underneath. A cough. Then a hoarse voice. “Get this shit off,” Kirill rasps.
Relief slams into me so hard, my knees shake.
“Move,” I tell the two closest men.
We all grab the top edge and pull. The twisted metal screeches. Slowly, it lifts. Smoke pushes out, thick and dark. I cough into my scarf and keep hauling.
When we have it high enough to clear the steps, Kirill appears. His face is black with soot. One sleeve is burned. His eyes are bright and furious.
“Out,” he snaps at the men behind him. “Now.”
Two soldiers come first, dragging a third who is coughing so hard he can’t stand. All of them have streaks of blood on their faces and arms. After them, Oleg climbs up, half bent, hands gripping the rail. His hair is singed. His lip is split.
Then Sergei comes.
He has one arm locked around Ilya’s chest, hauling him up the stairs like dead weight. Ilya’s hands are cuffed in front now. His head hangs forward. Blood drips from his nose and from a cut on his scalp. His coat is burned at one shoulder.
Sergei’s face is gray under the soot. There’s blood on his forehead, a red line near his temple. His knuckles are raw. His eyes meet mine as he reaches the top.
I almost drop to my knees.
“Get him,” he says, nodding at Ilya.
Two men take the prisoner from him and drag him away from the door. Ilya coughs once, groans, then tries to straighten.
“Breathe,” Kirill tells me under his breath, passing by. “They were at the back wall when it blew. The floor shielded most of it. Took the front of the blast up and out.”
I nod, but my hands still shake.
Sergei steps away from the cellar. His legs wobble for a second. I catch his arm.
“You idiot,” I say. My voice comes out rough. “You told me to stay down and then you wrestled a bomb and a traitor at the same time.”
“I told you to stay alive,” he answers. His mouth twists. “That part worked.”
He touches my face with the back of his hand. His fingers leave a smear of soot on my cheek. The contact steadies me. I lean into it for half a second, then pull back.
“Head count,” he says, raising his voice.
“All present,” Oleg calls. “Two with burns. One with a cracked rib. No one dead.”
“Good,” Sergei says. The word comes out soft.
A weak laugh comes from the ground nearby. I look over.
Ilya lies on his side, hands still cuffed. The skin around his eyes is dark with soot. His lip is split. One of his legs angles wrongly at the ankle. He is breathing fast and shallow.
“You never did know how to die without dragging everyone with you,” he wheezes. “At least this time, you crawled into the hole with me.”
Sergei walks over, slow and controlled. He looks down at him for a long moment. “You built the hole,” he says. “You live in it. That’s the only thing you ever did by yourself.”
Ilya grins, although it hurts him. Blood pools at the corner of his mouth. “You think this is the end?” he asks. “You shut down onecottage and one man. You think I didn’t spread the code already? You think I didn’t feed your enemies your weak points?”
Sergei crouches beside him. “You aren’t a ghost,” he says. “You are a bitter boy from my block who wanted my life instead of his own. You hurt my family, and you die today. That is the part that matters.”
“You were always small inside,” Ilya whispers. “All that power and you still run back to the same walls, the same woman, the same little girl. You call that strength? I call that a soft throat for anyone with a knife.”
