Page 6 of Beautiful Ruin

The interior lights flicker, turning the back seats into strobing shadow. Broken glass litters everything—across my lap, in the seams of the seat, caught on the sleeves of my jacket like shards of frozen rain. The side window beside me is gone, or mostly gone, and what remains clinging to the frame are jagged pieces that look like teeth. Night air drifts in through the opening, viciously cold and carrying the smells of engine smoke and burning rubber.

My head snaps toward the seat beside me.

Empty.

For one dizzying second, my brain refuses to make sense of it. The dark leather seat is there, blood smeared across the door and the handle in a way that makes my stomach lurch. But there is no Ivan.

Adrenaline slams through me like a freight train.

I twist toward the ruined door, shoulder already braced against the bent frame before I’ve consciously decided to move. The metal groans when I shove at it, and something in my ribs lights up so viciously, it nearly buckles my knees even from a seated position. I grit my teeth and push harder.

The door gives with a shriek of torn metal.

I half-fall, half-climb out onto the road, one hand catching against the mangled door frame to steady myself. My boots hit uneven asphalt slick with scattered glass and some fluid leaking from the vehicle. The world tilts for a second as I reorient myself, darkness from the wreck swimming at the edges of my vision, but I force it still.

The SUV is crumpled nose-first against a concrete barrier, front end folded in on itself like a punched-in ribcage. One headlight is gone entirely. The other flickers uselessly into the dark at a crooked angle, casting a shattered white beam across the roadway and turning drifting smoke into ghostly ribbons.

Behind us, one of the other convoy vehicles sits sideways across the lane, its front quarter smashed, horn blaring in a mechanical scream. The third is nowhere I can immediately see, swallowed by darkness and the curve of the road.

Twenty yards away, Ivan stands alone in the middle of the road.

He is half-turned from me, coat whipping faintly in the cold, one arm low at his side, the other just beginning to lift. The beam from our ruined SUV cuts across him in pieces, painting him in violent contrasts. And then I see them—two figures moving toward him from the dark shoulder of the road where another car lies ruined, guns already raised.

There is no thought after that.

My hand is already on the Glock holstered to my hip as I move forward. I don’t remember drawing it. One second, it is under my jacket, the next, it is in my grip, the weight of it slotting into my palm like a missing piece. I lunge away from the wreck, ignoring the pain spidering through my body with every stride.

The first shot cracks through the night like a clap of thunder. The recoil punches into my hand and forearm, the feels of it familiar. For a fraction of a second, the muzzle flash whites out the darkness in front of me.

Then the first man jerks back.

The bullet catches him dead in the chest. I see the impact ripple through him, his body losing all momentum at once. His raised gun dips, spine arching as though some invisible hook has yanked him backward. Then he drops hard to the asphalt, collapsing in a graceless heap that skids half a foot on the road before going still.

The second man spins toward me. His gun comes around in a vicious arc, searching for the new threat. But I am already shifting, bringing my own weapon back in line. Pain tears through my side, slowing me down. The world narrows to the dark hole of his barrel and the terrible knowledge that I may be half a second too slow.

A muzzle flash blooms close by, though not his.

Ivan’s.

For one frozen instant, the second man’s face is lit in profile, surprise and widening eyes staring back at me for half a second. Then the bullet takes him down and the expression disappears into collapse. He folds almost elegantly, knees giving first, weapon tumbling from his grip in a metallic clatter before the rest of him follows.

The road goes still after that. Clutching my side, my eyes sweep the barrier, the ditch beyond it, the black shapes of trees and brush further down the embankment. I look for movement and the glint of another gun, for the wrong kind of silhouette breaking through the trees. But there is nothing.

Which does not mean we are safe. It only solidifies that whoever planned this either sent two men to confirm the kill after the initial crash was supposed to kill us or pulled the rest back the second the scene didn’t pan out according to plan. Either way, it reeks of preparation. Someone knew our route.

Ivan is turned toward me now, his shoulders squared. Blood runs from a cut at his temple, disappearing into the collar of his coat. His breathing looks steady from here. There is no visible panic in him, only that same cold, severe focus he carried out of Malyshko’s estate.

For one long moment, we just look at each other across the road.

I keep my gun in one hand and move toward the bodies. Squatting, I dig through the first man’s pockets, finding a burner phone, a knife strapped inside the lining of his coat, loose cash, and no wallet. There is no identification that tells me who he was beyond the obvious fact that someone hired him to kill us.

I move to the second man, feeling Ivan hovering close by.

He’s twisted onto his side where Ivan’s shot dropped him, one arm trapped under his torso. Blood has pooled beneath his shoulder and is already turning almost black in the cold. I pat down the outer pockets first, finding another burner and blade.

Then I move to inside the coat lining and feel it. A stiffness where fabric should hang flat. Whatever it is, it’s hidden inside the seam like something meant to be carried close and go unnoticed. I hook two fingers into the frayed edge of the lining and pull at it.

A folded packet comes free. For half a second, that surprises me more than the ambush. Men like this don’t carry hard copies unless there’s a reason. They’re too easy to lose during an ambush, too easy to trace if caught.