The road blurs in front of my eyes for the umpteenth time, and I jerkily wipe at the wetness on my cheeks. I donât know why I canât stop the tears from coming, why my chest aches like Iâve just lost Mom all over again. The banana I picked up at a gas station is lying on the passenger seat, half-eaten, and though itâs the only food Iâve had today, the thought of taking another bite makes me want to vomit.
Iâm driving blindly again, heading nowhere. I mustâve been in shock for the first couple of hours because I can barely recall how I got here. I know I filled up the car somewhere, because the fuel gauge shows the tank is full, but I have only a vague recollection of walking into a dingy store and paying. The banana came from there, Iâm sureâI grabbed it on autopilotâbut I donât remember eating it, though I must have.
Iâm pretty sure they donât sell half-eaten fruit, even at the dingiest of gas stations.
The road ahead of me slopes up and curves sharply, and I force myself to concentrate. The last thing I need is to drive off a cliff. As is, I feel like thatâs more or less what Iâm doing with every mile of distance Iâm putting between myself and Nikolai.
I did the right thing, the smart thing.
I keep telling myself that, but it doesnât help, doesnât lessen the feeling that Iâve made a terrible mistake. Itâs only been a few hours since I left, yet I miss him so acutely itâs as if weâve been apart for months. When he was away on the business trip, I knew Iâd see him again, knew weâd speak each evening, but thereâs no such certainty now.
He may refuse to talk to me when I call him.
He may be so angry that I left he wonât want me to return.
Now that Iâm out here, away from the compound, Alinaâs revelations seem even more like the ramblings of an ill, drugged-out mind, and though I canât dismiss them entirely, I shudder at the thought of confronting Nikolai and asking whether he did, in fact, kill his father.
What innocent man wouldnât be insulted by that query?
What boyfriend wouldnât be furious that his girlfriend believed such monstrous lies?
I shouldâve stayed. Fuck, I shouldâve stayed. Even if it felt risky at the time, I shouldâve given Nikolai a fair hearing. The keys prove nothing. Alina couldâve had them all along; she couldâve even stolen them from Pavel. If Nikolai wanted to deprive me of my freedom, there are all kinds of other actions he couldâve takenâlike telling the guards not to let me out.
And thatâs the thing, I realize with a start. Thatâs why what seemed so rational when I was packing feels like such an awful error now. Itâs because the moment I drove through the gate, I got proof that I could leave, that Nikolai didnât plan to keep me there with some sinister intentions. Iâd been too panicky to realize it at first, but the farther I drove, the deeper that knowledge settled, the consequences of my impulsive actions weighing on me more with every passing mile.
I shouldâve turned back hours ago.
In fact, I shouldâve done it the moment I cleared the gate.
I cast a frantic glance around me. Trees and cliffs everywhere. Iâm deep in the mountains again, the road in front of me so narrow itâs barely two lanes. I canât do a U-turn here; it would be suicide to try.
Clutching the wheel tighter, I keep drivingâand finally, I see it.
A little extra space to the left of where the road curves.
I look in the mirror, then straight ahead and back.
Nothing. No cars. Iâm all alone.
Braking hard, I make an illegal U-turn and head back.
Iâm twenty minutes into my return trip and desperately trying to remember if I need to turn right or left at the upcoming intersection when a black pickup truck turns onto the road, coming toward me.
A chill ripples down my spine, the fine hair on the back of my neck rising.
It could be my paranoia working overtime again, but those tinted windows look familiar.
Thereâs no time to second-guess myself; in another thirty seconds, weâll be passing next to each other. With a sharp tug on the wheel, I swing the car onto a small dirt road leading up the mountain to my right, and slam on the gas, ignoring the complaining whine from the Corollaâs ancient motor.
If itâs not them, they wonât follow me.
Iâll feel like an idiot, but better that than dead.
My heart thumps violently against my ribcage, each second marked by half a dozen beats as my gaze flits between the rearview mirror and the steep, pothole-filled road ahead. Please donât let it be them. Please donât let itâ
The pickup truck appears in the mirror, its dark shape gaining on me swiftly.
I push the gas pedal to the floor, my breath coming in jagged gasps as my car bounces over a series of potholes. Adrenaline sloshes in my veins, ratcheting up my pulse until all I can hear is its roar in my ears.
Pop!
My right side mirror explodes, and my terror doubles as I catch sight of a man leaning out the truckâs passenger-side window, gun in hand. Instinctively, I jerk the wheel left, and the next bullet shatters the back window and punches a hole in the windshield, barely a foot from my head.
The third bullet whines past my shoulder, and I taste death. I feel its icy, scaly fingers. Itâs everything left undone, unsaid, all the things that wonât come to pass. Itâs Nikolai whispering into my ear how much he wants me, loves me, and Slava giggling as he hugs me tight. Itâs the bitter knowledge that these men will get away with this, like they did with Momâs murder, and regret that no one will ever know how I died.
A fourth bullet pierces the seat an inch from my right side, and I jerk on the wheel again, desperate to avoid the inevitable, to live at least a second longer. The pickup is right behind me now, looming over my Corolla like a black mountain, and as I try to swerve out of the next bulletâs path, its bumper rams into mine, hard, making my head whip forward.
Pop!
Fire punches through my upper arm, the sensation so sharp and sudden it doesnât hurt at first. Instead, I feel something hot and wet slide down my arm as the truck slams into my car again, making it shudder from the massive jolt. The pain hits me then, a nauseating wave of it, and with the desperation of a dying animal, I jerk off my seat belt and push open my door.
Pop!
What remains of the windshield shatters as I hit the dirt so hard air whooshes out of my lungs. Stunned, I roll twice before landing on my back and watching in dazed horror as the truck rams one last time into my Corolla, forcing it off the road and squashing it against a thick tree. With an earsplitting screech of metal crushing metal, the old car crumples, and then, just like in the movies, catches fire. The truck immediately backs up, and some remnant of strength propels me to my feet.
Run, Chloe.
Dragging in a wheezing breath, I lurch toward the trees on legs that feel like broken matches, my knees threatening to buckle with each step I take. My foot catches on a root, and pain shoots through my left ankleâthe same ankle I twisted hiding in Momâs closetâbut I just clench my teeth and force my strides to lengthen, ignoring the hot blood dripping down my arm and the dizziness washing over me in waves. I canât give up, not if I want to live, so I keep going, keep limping forward at a zombie-like half-jog, half-run.
A male voice yells something behind me, and I force myself to pick up speed, ragged sobs sawing between my lips as another bullet whizzes past my ear, splintering a branch in front of me.
âFucking bitch!â
Some sixth sense makes me duck, and a bullet slams into a tree instead of me as I lurch sideways.
Run, Chloe.
Momâs voice is clearer than ever, and with a surge of strength I didnât know I possessed, I launch into a full-scale run. My ankle screams each time my foot strikes the ground, my vision blurring from nausea and waves of pain, but I run with everything Iâve got.
Only itâs not enough.
Not nearly enough.
A truck-like force rams into me, knocking me off my feet, and a massive weight crushes me into the leaf-strewn dirt. I canât even wheeze as my ribcage flattens outâand then, miraculously, the weight is gone and Iâm flipped over onto my back.
When my vision clears, I see a huge dark-haired man straddling me, gun pointed at my face and mouth twisted in a triumphant snarl.
âGotcha, little bitch,â he says, panting. âAnd since you made us work for it, you owe us some fun.â