Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
The bleakness of our situation suddenly crashes down on me. We’re screwed. Ironically, in the cell, I had hope. But out here? Our chances aren’t looking good. We have no weapons and Besov, a skilled assassin, has two. Plus, Alex is bleeding. I glance at his side where his coat has fallen open. Underneath the jacket, his shirt is torn and soaked with blood. It looks like a stab wound. He needs stitches. If the bleeding doesn’t stop, he’ll soon be too weak to drive, never mind defend himself.
“Turn right here,” Besov says.
The fancy neighborhood with the big houses makes way for apartment buildings. We cross a bridge and drive alongside the river. It starts to snow, flakes drifting down onto the windshield. Alex switches on the wipers.
We drive for another few minutes, following Besov’s directions, until the buildings run thin and we finally leave St. Petersburg behind. We’re on a road leading toward the countryside. He must be taking us somewhere isolated to kill us.
The silence in the car is stifling. The road runs straight for as far as I can see. Besov isn’t giving directions any longer. With no witnesses around, he raises both guns, pushing one against my head and the other against Alex’s.
Alex flexes his jaw, but he keeps his eyes on the narrow road, navigating us through the snowfall that turns into a storm as the wind picks up. The wipers make swooshing sounds, batting left and right as Alex puts them on maximum speed. Our visibility diminishes. The snow falls down harder, the flakes illuminated in the headlights of the car.
Trees dot the sides of the road. They quickly grow denser. We’re entering a forest. Clutching the edges of my seat, I look at Alex. He’s pale, a tell-tale sign of blood loss. Turning his head no more than an inch, he fleetingly moves his gaze from the road to my face.
“I love you,” he mouths.
The words are silent, but their meaning is powerful. Charged.
Scraping together all the courage I can muster, I give him a smile. Our gazes lock. He’s no longer focused on the road. It only lasts for a second, but I know instinctively that this is the moment our lives are supposed to flash in front of our eyes.
With a sharp movement, he jerks the wheel to the left. Our bodies are thrown to the side as the car skids across the road. The seatbelt cuts into my chest. I scream. I can’t help it. At the same time, the momentum propels Besov through the air. Arms flailing, he hits the door, but not before a shot goes off.
Pain lances into my shoulder.
The car crashes through a barrier and barrels down an embankment. I’m tossed forward as the tires lose grip. We torpedo ahead, hitting a ditch at full speed. The thick snow breaks our velocity. My neck jerks violently as we come to an abrupt halt. The nose of the car dives, and the weight of the back pulls it over. The world tumbles past my window as we roll onto the roof. The crash jolts my spine. The car condenses, metal groaning and windows exploding.
Then silence.
I’m still for a moment. Disoriented.
It’s snowing too hard to make out anything other than that I’m upside down, squeezed into a narrow space.
“Katerina!”
Alex’s voice penetrates the strange numbness encasing me.
A warm hand touches my arm. “Katyusha, talk to me.”
I force my vocal cords to function. “I’m…” I swallow. “I’m all right.”
He utters something in Russian, a curse or maybe an exclamation of relief. “I’m unclipping your seatbelt. Brace yourself.”
The clip makes a clicking sound. The breath leaves my lungs with an oomph as my back hits the roof.
“I’m coming for you,” he says, unfastening his seatbelt before pushing himself through the window.
Dazed, I lie in the wreck. We’ve crashed. I scan the space in front of me. Besov is slung sideways, his neck bent against the window. The guns are no longer in his hands. They’re nowhere in sight.
Pain burns in my shoulder. My left arm feels numb. Crossing my right arm over, I brush a hand over the aching spot.
It’s wet.
I lift my hand to my face.
Blood.
I’ve been shot.
“Katerina,” Alex says next to me.
I turn my head. He’s kneeling in the snow, his face pinched into a mask of concern.
“Push your upper body through the window,” he urges. “I’ll drag you out.”
I try to do as he says, but my left arm won’t cooperate.
“Just a little more, my love.” His tone is calm, but he can’t hide the anxiety that shows through the forced tranquility of his expression. “I’ve got you.”
Hooking a hand under my right arm, he pulls me through the broken window. The glass has shattered into tiny pieces, but the puffy jacket protects me against the roughness of their broken edges.