Page 110 of Unspoken

Shtyk takes a few steps forward and I nudge Sasha to stand behind me while pulling out my weapon.

The Russian levels his weapon at me in return.

"Your services are no longer required, Mr. McKenna," he states with deadly finality in his voice. "I only want the littleschenok." Time seems to slow down as Shtyk's finger tightens on the trigger, the barrel of his gun aimed directly at my head. One shot and I’m no longer in this world and no one will protect Sasha. "Goodbye, Mr. McKenna."

"You need to run," I tell Sasha, not looking at him and squeezing his hand one last time.

The shot rings out.

Sasha, without a warning, throws himself in front of me.

The distant rumble of engines perforates through the haze of my shock.

Concentrate, Logan. Concentrate.

I blink away the spots that dance across my vision. More tires screech against the ground, worrying dust and gravel, and I turn my head, watching as vehicles pour to the opposite end of the alley.

I’m on my knees, I realize, cradling Sasha’s head in my lap with one hand. My other hand is pressing against the fresh hole in his chest. I'm leaning over him, ready to protect him from the bullets, but I think it's too late. One's already got him.

I’m losing myself in the wave of emotions that crashes over me. I keep losing people, people I care about, people that make this stupid life worth living. Dad, Ma, now Sasha.

"Why?" I choke out, my voice raw. "Why in the world would you—" I don’t finish this sentence. I can’t. It seems like if I say it out loud, it’ll be real.

He looks at me with his green eyes. His lips—dangerously blue—twist into a sad, crooked smile, and he reaches up with a trembling hand to brush his fingers against my cheek.

"For once," he whispers, words barely audible over the chaos around us, "I wanted to save you."

My heart clenches. "Stupid, stupid boy," I whisper back, ignoring the footsteps and the Russian speech filling the alley.

"Stay with me," I plead, fumbling with his blood-soaked shirt to check the extent of his injury.Fuck. Why is there so much blood?"Stay awake, okay? We’ll get you some help in a minute." Hot tears sizzle at the corners of my eyes as my hand continues to press down on Sasha’s gaping wound. But I refuse to let these tears fall. I refuse to let him see how desperate, how broken I am. I’m supposed to be his rock, his protector. And I allowed for a bullet to take him. I didn’t stop it like I was meant to.

A voice yells something in a language I don’t understand. Thick, Russian accent. Sounds like Ivan.

Gunfire bursts from the direction where Shtyk and his men are making their reckless stand. A blend of Russian and Spanish,then English. Ivan and his crew spread out through the narrow space, pushing Shtyk’s goons further away from the alley and out.

The sound of footsteps approaches, and I look up to see Vlad rushing toward us, his face a mask of shock and horror. His suit is disheveled. For once he’s not at one hundred percent. He drops to his knees beside us, his hands hovering over Sasha, his eyes wide and desperate.

"Bratishka, derzhis’," he whispers, scrambling to get his phone from his pocket. His gaze sweeps over to me. "What happened?" His voice is angry, demanding, and shaking. "Logan, what the hell happened?"

But I can't answer, the words stuck in my throat, my heart shattering into a million pieces as I cradle Sasha's bloody body in my arms.

"Fuck," Vlad mutters, punching a finger at his screen. Three numbers. 911, I realize as he screams our coordinates.

CHAPTER 38

SASHA

I wake up to a blinding whiteness, like someone's shoved my head in a snowbank. Blinking against the harsh glare, I feel like I've been hit by a bloody lorry. Every inch of my body throbs with a deep, unrelenting ache originating somewhere in my left shoulder. That bit of me is on fire.

Slowly, the surroundings swim into focus. Pristine white walls, sterile scent of antiseptic, rhythmic beeping of machines. I'm in a hospital, I realize, as I stare at the closed door across the room.

But how the hell did I end up here?

Fragments of memories flicker through my mind, jagged pieces that don't quite fit together. Running, my lungs burning, feet pounding against the uneven stretch of the rooftop. Shouts and gunshots echoing behind me. Logan's panicked face. Dumpster jump. Then a searing pain, like a hot poker stabbing into my shoulder, and the world tilting sideways....

I remember strong arms cradling me as I lay on the ground. Logan's voice, distant and muffled, asking me to stay with him, to hold on. I remember slipping into the darkness for a bit, then flashing lights, siren wails, the rumbling of the ambulanceall around me. Logan's hand gripping mine, his face swimming above me. Then nothing again.

Shifting my gaze to the opposite side of the room, I notice a figure slumped in the corner chair. Vlad. But he looks nothing like his usual put-together self. His expensive clothes are rumpled, blood splattered across his once crisp white shirt. I can't recall ever seeing my brother in such a disheveled state. He's always been the picture of control and composure, not a hair out of place. Seeing him this way, it's like glimpsing a stranger wearing my brother's skin.

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