Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“No, no, Slavochka, a drill is not a bad thing.” I shift most of his weight onto my left hip and pat his back reassuringly. The feel of him, small yet sturdy and warm, helps me maintain my outward calm. “We’re just practicing what to do if there’s ever a problem, okay?”
He blinks. “What kind of problem?”
“Oh, you know…” I rack my brain for something that wouldn’t frighten an almost-five-year-old, but he beats me to it.
“Like if a supervillain comes?”
I beam at him. “That’s right.” Thank God for comic books and little boys’ obsession with them. “So we know what to do in case a supervillain comes.”
Slava puffs up. “I can beat him. I’m strong, like Superman.”
“Yes, you are.” God, this child is precious. I can’t believe I didn’t know him for the first four years of his life. And if I feel this way, I can’t imagine how Nikolai is handling that devastating knowledge—especially now that he and Slava are growing closer.
“Ready!” Lyudmila calls from below.
I carefully set Slava down on his feet and crouch in front of him. “Part of the drill is climbing down this ladder. Do you think you’re up for it?”
He bobs his head. “I know how to climb.”
“Okay, good.” I squeeze his thin shoulder. “Now go. Be fast but careful, okay? Lyudmila is waiting for you below.”
He clambers down the ladder like a monkey, and a few seconds later, Lyudmila shouts that she has him. Relief surges through me, and I hurry down the ladder as well, descending into the safe room.
Lyudmila grabs me by the arm as soon as my feet touch the ground. “None of the monitors work,” she whispers in my ear. Stepping back, she nods toward the wall of screens that are supposed to display camera views from outside but currently show only static.
Fuck. My pulse leaps higher as I remember my dead phone and computer.
It’s an EMP. It has to be, even though the lights in the house never went out. Konstantin, tech-savvy paranoiac that he is, worried about the possibility of such an attack, so our key power lines are buried underground and hardened with metal casings, and our backup generator resides in a Faraday cage. But our phones, laptops, cameras, and drones—all the electronics that were out in the open—must’ve gotten fried by the electromagnetic pulse, and I can think of only one enemy of ours who’d have access to such an advanced weapon.
The Leonovs.
Alexei has found us.
A distant pop of gunfire makes me jump.
Fuck. There’s no longer any doubt.
This is an attack.
It’s real.
It’s happening.
I begin to pace in a futile effort to control my anxiety. In addition to a tiny but fully equipped kitchen, the bunker boasts a king-sized bed, two futons, a small bathroom, and a pantry. Theoretically, there’s plenty of space, but I feel claustrophobic, trapped like a rat in a cage.
Only minutes must pass before Chloe appears, but it feels like an eternity. She climbs down the ladder and closes the ceiling hatch behind her. She also hasn’t changed out of her evening wear, and her white gown glows under the bright ceiling lights, as does her smooth, olive-toned complexion. In general, she’s got that dewy, flushed look of someone who’s just had amazing sex, and for a moment, I feel a sharp, illogical pang of jealousy.
But no. That’s stupid. I don’t want sex. I don’t want love and marriage, especially with a man as dangerous and obsessive as my brother. I just want to be left alone.
As soon as Chloe is on the ground, Slava runs to her. I’m not surprised. She’s now by far his favorite person—undoubtedly another reason Nikolai has decided to force her into marriage. Not that she doesn’t have other great qualities besides her affinity for children. I like her a lot too; we’ve become friends in recent weeks.
“Sit, please,” Lyudmila hisses under her breath as I pace past her, so I force myself to stop and take a seat on the futon across from the bed where Chloe has sat down with Slava. He’s on her lap, hugging her neck, and I feel another irrational surge of jealousy—this time, because I want to be the one holding him, deriving comfort from his small, warm weight.
“Lyudmila told him it’s just a drill,” I say in English, keeping my voice low. I hope Slava doesn’t understand. Thanks to Chloe, my nephew now knows a bunch of words and a few basic sentences in English, but he’s still far from fluent. “He’s taking it well, don’t you think?”
Chloe swallows visibly and glances up as more gunfire sounds in the distance. Her voice is only marginally unsteady. “Yeah. He’s doing great.”
Whereas I’m a nervous wreck, and so is she. She’s tapping her bare foot on the floor, the sound pounding at my brain like a hammer.