“Cassandra.”
“What?”
“Shut up for one second.”
I shut up. It’s not easy. My mouth wants to keep going without my permission, but I clamp my teeth down on my tongue and wait.
He takes a slow breath. Then another. His hand stays clamped around the handle of the knife, holding it in place. Smart. I’ve seen enoughERreruns to know you don’t yank those out unless you know what you’re doing, which I certainly do not.
“There’s no time for an ambulance,” he explains. “I need a car. Where is yours?”
“Around the corner. Half a block.”
He nods once. “I can do that. Lead the way.”
Thus begins the strangest three-legged race of my life. Back in elementary school, when this sort of athletic event seemed to crop up a lot, I always thought it was kinda useless. When in life would I ever need this skill of running with someone basically tied to me?
I mean, never, obviously. Duh.
But it’s a bummer that I sucked at the three-legged race then and I still suck at it now. I’m doing my best, but Matvei is way bigger and way heavier than me. I mean, for God’s sake, I’m just a girl. Literally just a girl. And I’m supposed to somehow get The Punisher here into my car and then out of it again once we get to a hospital?
I have to. I have no other choice. If I don’t do it, Matvei dies. The least I can do is save the life of the man who’s saved mine several times over, despite my best efforts to ignore his well-intentioned advice and get myself killed anyway.
So we go. One painful, staggering step at a time.
We’re leaving a trail of blood the whole way, and it’s concerningly thick. How much blood does the human body contain? I know Matvei is big, but is there reallythat muchlife juice in him? Can he afford to spare this much and keep on ticking?
God, I hope so. The only thing worse than hauling around a stab victim is hauling around adeadstab victim.
My knee is still screaming, but I selflessly decide not to mention that little tidbit. It just seems rude to bring it up when my companion is leaking out of a hole in his ribs.
“Almost there,” I pant. “Almost there, almost there, you big, stubborn bastard. Don’t you dare pass out on me.”
“Not planning on it.”
“Good. Because if you pass out, I have to drag you. And I cannot drag you, Matvei. You are four of me.”
“Are you calling me fat?” he wheezes.
“Shut up and walk.”
We round the corner. My unprepared little Audi comes into view under a flickering streetlamp, and I swear I’ve never loved an inanimate object more in my life. I fumble the key fob out of my coat pocket and mash the unlock button about a billion times.
Getting him into the back seat is its own special kind of hell. He’s too tall, too heavy, too bleedy, too everything. I shove at his shoulders while he maneuvers his legs as best as he can.
Between the two of us, we manage to fold him sideways across the bench. I do accidentally bang his head against the far door and he grunts in pain.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Comfy?” I ask.
“Exquisite. Please drive the fucking car.”
I don’t like how his retorts are getting less and less snappy, his voice quieter and quieter. It’s like his spirit is pouring out of him through the wound in his side.
Fuck me, this is not the death I wanted tonight. I should’ve known I’d fuck it up. Who hires a hitman and then immediately gets that hitman killed? Me, that’s who. Hapless, luckless Cassandra Snyder, who will forever remain trapped in a prison of her own making.
