Beyond him, the young guard—Misha—is slumped over the guardrail, weapon still gripped in his dead hand. Half his head is missing. The angle of the spray suggests a high-velocity round from the towers. Sniper fire.
My best men. Slaughtered like cattle.
"Boss..."
A wet, gurgling rattle. It’s so faint I almost miss it over the crackle of the fire.
I spin around.
Lev.
He’s propped against the barrier, hidden in the shadow of the wreck.
I run to him, sliding on my knees in the oil and grit.
"Lev!"
He looks like he went through a meat grinder. Face gray as ash. Blood masks the left side of his head. But that isn't what kills me.
It's his leg.
His thigh is soaked in dark arterial blood. Shrapnel or a stray round tore through the meat of his leg. The blood is pumping, pushing out with every beat of his heart.
"Lev! Look at me!"
I grab his vest, pulling him upright. His head lolls back.
"Stay with me," I command. "That’s an order. Stay with me!"
His eyelids flutter as he tries to focus on my face. His lips move, but only a bubble of blood escapes.
"H... He..."
"Don't speak," I snap, ripping off my tie. I wrap it around his thigh, yanking it tight. "Save your breath."
He lets out a long, ragged exhale. His hand fumbles for my wrist. "Sorry," he wheezes. "Sorry... Boss."
"Shut up," I snarl. "You did your job. You held the line."
"Failed," he gasps. Tears mix with blood. "Taking... her..."
"They won't keep her," I promise. "I’ll burn them for this. Now breathe, Lev. Breathe!"
Sirens wail in the distance. Blue lights flash against the girders. A reminder that the window for a quiet cleanup is closing. I have no time for the paperwork of a massacre.
I have to get Lev off this bridge. He can still survive this.
I pull out my phone. My fingers are trembling, slick with his blood. It smears across the screen as I dial Ivan.
"Get the cleanup crew to the Narrows. Now."
"Status?" Ivan asks.
"The Sentinel is destroyed," I say, devoid of emotion. If I feel anything right now, I’ll break. "Helena is gone. The team is dead. Lev is down—femoral artery. He's bleeding out."
"I'm dispatching the med-team to St. Jude's?—"
"No hospital," I shout, rage cracking the ice. "The police will ask questions that the Doc won't. I don't have time to buy silence today. Get him to the clinic. Now."
