“You’re lying!” he screams at me again and pushes the knife up into my face, letting the metal cut into my cheek, cold and piercing. “Just give me his name! It’s that zasranec Mikhail, isn’t it?! Just say it!”
My body is in anguish, begging me to just tell him. Let Mikhail’s name tumble from my lips, and let this all be over. Maybe he’ll even just let me go, even after all of this, if I just obey. But I can’t pretend I’m even considering it.
There’s no way I’m going to betray Mikhail. There’s no way I’m going to turn my back on my only real chance at love.
It’s like suddenly everything he told me kicks into place. The reason why Mikhail had been so cold and distant, the reason he felt he needed to protect me. I now know he wasn’t bluffing just to keep me in place.
He’s been honest to me this entire time, and my heart thuds with fear and love, the emotions mingling into a twisted warmth. I’m going to get out of this. I’m going to survive so that I can tell him that he was right.
“I have no idea! I was drugged!”
Then I hear it, a voice coming in a little tinny. My abuser is looking at the phone upon a nearby box as the voice rises out of it. It’s all in a foreign language I don’t understand, Russian I think, but one name stands out from all the talk: Mikhail.
My captor speaks back, but suddenly all his anger and venom is gone and he has such deference in his voice. It doesn’t last long, though, before his full attention is back upon me as rage flares up in his eyes.
“I am going to give you one last fucking chance to tell the truth,” he says with barely contained anger. “And if you don’t tell me what I want, then I am going to start cutting off fingers,” he says, and he grabs hold of my hand, which is by now already partly numb, twisting my finger so hard I hear a crack and cry out in pain.
It’s like a lightning bolt through my brain, and I can barely even think. All that remains is pain and hurt, and even when I try to squirm, the jagged springs of the bed prod my back and offer no relief.
Tears flood my eyes and I feel them dripping into my hair, but I shake my head. My voice trembles, my mouth filled with saliva and making it harder to talk. “Please stop. I don’t know anything!”
“That’s it,” he growls and he presses the blade into my finger and I see blood well up. “You brought this on yourself,” he declares, working on severing my index finger.
17
Mikhail
For the first time in my life since I was but a boy, I find myself at a loss. There are no other cars in the back lot to steal, and going back around front to get something to take, and then to navigate around to meet the speeding Vasili, would take far too long.
It’s all falling apart before me.
But I have to try, and I turn and run back all the same, because I won’t give up. That’s not who I am. I’m no quitter. However, the sight of Eva stumbling out of the room, clutching her side gives me pause.
“Wait,” she says, and I stop to help her.
“Will you make it? I have to go and try to rescue her, I can’t afford to stop,” I tell her, because as much as I want to help this brave woman out, Alicia’s life is forfeit if I don’t find her as soon as possible.
“Don’t worry about me,” she says, fishing into her pocket and pulling out a phone. “I gave her my GPS tracker,” she says, opening her phone and activating the tracking app before handing it to me. “Go get her,” she says with grim determination on her blood spattered face.
I pause, thankfulness welling up in me for what this woman has done. I want to ask her one last time if I can help, but I see already two of her gang coming up the stairs toward us.
“I’ll bring her back safe and sound,” I pledge.
“You better,” Eva tells me.
I head back to my stolen ride as the sounds of sirens slowly filter toward us. We all need to get the hell out of here soon, regardless, unless we want the police to screw everything up for us.
I run my fingers through my hair as I tear out of the parking lot, then instantly force myself to slow down. I’m not going to do her any good by getting the attention of the cops. Especially after clamping my hand down on the wheel and seeing the trail of blood down around my forearm. I’d completely forgotten I’d been shot.
I put the wheel between my knees as I tear at the bottom of my shirt, ripping a strip off and wrapping it around my wound. I’ll need to get fixed up later, probably a couple stitches, but for now, this’ll do. I flex my hand, testing to see how much mobility I have, and find that the shooter must’ve missed every important nerve. I still have full range of motion, and that’s good, because I’ll need it. Still, I’ve lost a lot of blood, and I can feel the effects. My reaction time won’t be at its peak.