Page 82 of Vasily the Nail

“You gonna tell me what exactly caused this fucked feeling?” he bristles.

I don’t want to. For real, I don’t need him to be worrying, because Ana will notice and start to worry, too. And he’ll get really antsy, try to drop Ana off at Kseniya’s so he can come out, but I need him to stay with Ana.

I need Ana safe.

“Just the usual nonsense. IRA pulling some stunt,” I say, trying to keep it as light as possible. “Just stay where you are.”

By the time I’ve gotten off the phone with him, we’re already getting people checking in. There are signs indicating the businesses are closed for the foreseeable future. The truck stop is the only business that would be open at this hour anyway, and they’re having aneverything must gosale. We get video confirmation that people are moving out of their homes.

One of the videos is from Alessandro, and he’s talking to Walsh, the second-in-command of the IRA branch. “We have half the units at Alliance Arms cleared out,” Walsh promises as he mops his brow with a greasy rag, drying up the obvious sweat. He’s got a giant hutch in front of him, the sort of thing his ancestors would have built the house around with the intention of never moving it again. He’s legitimately moving that family out.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Artyom says in Russian. We usually stick with English out of deference for the cartel when we’rehere, it’s manners, but the fact that I just chatted with Dima in Russian gives us a pass on that, I think. I’m sure they do the same when they’re not thinking about it. Sometimes the switch between the native tongue and the local tongue doesn’t always flip properly.

I nod and lean back in my seat, feigning comfort. If anything, I’m happy Artyom is agreeing with me. I don’t care how legit this all looks. I’d rather be cautious and looking neurotic later than be dead for falling for their trap. “Yeah, this is about to get ugly, and I don’t want to be here when it does.”

Casual as you like, he says to Hector, “I’m going to check that apartment complex myself. My sister lives just down the street, and I want to touch base with her too, but she’s not answering the phone. I’ve got a set of keys.”

Hector nods like he thinks it’s a good idea. Whether he believes it or not, I don’t care, because his goons let us out of the booth.

To make it all even more casual, I light up a cigarette as we stroll out, like I plan on chilling in the parking lot for an extra minute before we head out. No big rush. Silly prank. When we step outside, the back door of the car opens and Sergey gets out.

“Hey guys, it’s been quiet out here. Nobody’s even driven by. Everything’s good.”

Artyom and I exchange a look as we realize we never asked why it was so dead inside the club. I catch the widening of the eyes of the security guys as well, both men lowering their hands to their guns while one radios inside. I’m already shoving Artyom back toward the building as a safety measure when I hear the sudden rev of engines and squeal of tires.

Three cars appear out of nowhere. The world lights up, deafening us with the explosion of guns.

My breath catches, my stomach plunging as I see him fall face-first to the ground. For a moment, Sergey doesn’t move, and panic grips me like a vice. Blood seeps from beneath his shirt, staining the parking lot.

“No!” The scream rips from my throat, raw and jagged, my mind racing ahead to the worst. This is it, my greatest fear. We brought the rookie out, and now he’s been shot. Did they hit something vital? Can we staunch the bleeding? Is he—

Then, with a groan, his head lifts. “That sucked.”

Relief crashes over me. “You okay?” I yell, barely able to hear my own words over the pounding in my chest.

“My ass,” he groans again, rolling slightly. “They shot me in the ass. They—” His voice dies out, and the color drains from his cheeks. I think he’s about to pass out, which I’ll have to rag on him for if he survives this, but we’ve all been there. But then he croaks out, “Artyom?”

It seems like only a second has passed since I dragged him down to the asphalt, but he hasn’t moved.

He hasn’t moved.

And the hand I’ve anchored next to him feels damp. Warm and damp.

I look down at him.

He looks up at me.

Coughs softly.

Blood sputters up.

The world goes dull and numb around me even as men begin to spill out of the club, some fanning out across the parking lot, some rushing to me and Sergey and the bouncer. Crowding them. Crowding us. Crowding me.

Crowding Artyom.

“Brother?” I whisper.

His chest rises and falls beneath mine. He’s breathing. He lost a tooth in the fall, and now his mouth is filling with blood, I’m sure of it.

---