Page 64 of Last Hand

“Stay low!” I tell them. We crouch, moving as fast as we can through the burning cabin. The smoke hangs thick above our heads, a deadly black cloud waiting to suffocate us if we stand too tall.

A beam cracks overhead, showering us with burning splinters. Anya screams, brushing embers from her hair. I yank her forward, my grip so tight I’ll probably leave bruises. Better bruised than burned alive as I clamp a hand over her mouth to shut her scream off. I pat her down and press a finger to my lips and they nod.

The back door is just ahead, warped in its frame yet our only chance. I throw my shoulder against it, once, twice, the impact jarring through my bones. On the third try, it gives with a groan of protesting wood. We spill out into the night air, gulping it down like we’ve been drowning.

We make it out the back door, just as the roof begins to cave in. The sound is deafening, a thunderous collapse as memories turn to ash. I don’t look back. Can’t afford to.

I clutch Mila’s hand tight, dragging her through the thicket behind the cabin. Anya is right behind me, wheezing from the smoke, her thin shoulders heaving with each cough. The heat from the house still burns the back of my neck. We just have to make it a little farther.

The forest is a maze. Every tree looks the same, every path twists back on itself. But I remember these woods, even after all these years. Remember the way the creek bends to the north, theway the old hunting trail cuts through the densest part of the underbrush. If we can just reach the road beyond—And then I hear her voice.

“Daddy?”

I freeze. My heart skips a beat. No. No, please, no.

Mikhail stops, too. Across the clearing toward the old barn. He was heading for the barn, barking orders at his men as they fanned out across the property. Now he turns slowly, his head whipping toward the sound like a predator that’s just scented blood.

I spin toward Mila, clapping my hand over her mouth. It’s too late. She’s already waving, her small arm raised above the underbrush. His eyes lock onto her. Onto us. A smile spreads across his face, slow and terrible as spilled blood.

“Over there,” he calls to his men when his voice turns soft with false tenderness. “Mila where are you, baby, come to Daddy, little one.”

“No,” I whisper fiercely in Mila’s ear as I drag her further back.

Her eyes widen in confusion, darting between me and Mikhail. She doesn’t understand. How could she? She’s just a child caught in a war she didn’t start.

“Run!” I scream. “Run, Mila!”

She stands frozen, her lips parted, confused. Mikhail is already moving toward us, his long legs eating up the distance between us. His men fall in behind him, their guns drawn.

“Mila, now!” I snap, grabbing her arm as I yank her through the trees. “Anya, come on—move!”

I grab Anya’s hand too, nearly lifting her off the ground as I take off toward the trees. She fights me, twisting, sobbing.

“We can’t leave Mommy!” she cries, her voice breaking on the word.

“We have to! She’s right behind us!” I lie. The truth is too much to bear, that her mother is still back there, at their father’s mercy. That we might be the only reason she’s still alive at all.

I clamp a hand over Anya’s mouth as branches scratch our faces and the world turns to noise—boots thudding, men yelling, dogs barking in the distance. We tear through the forest, my lungs burning, legs giving out beneath me. Every breath is fire. Every step is agony.

Gunshots crack behind us. I flinch, instinctively pulling the girls closer, using my body as a shield. The bullets aren’t meant for us. Not yet. They’re warning shots, meant to herd us like frightened animals. And it’s working.

My foot catches on a root, and I go down hard, my knee smashing against a rock. Pain explodes up my leg. I bite back a scream, tasting blood. The girls tumble with me, a tangle of limbs and terrified breathing.

“Get up,” I hiss, more to myself than to them. “Get up, get up, get up.”

My knee throbs as I force myself back to my feet. More shouts behind us. Closer now. They’re gaining on us. Of course they are. They’re grown men with guns and flashlights. I’m an injured woman with two exhausted children.

Think, Fallon. Think.

My gaze scans the darkness frantically. There… a massive fallen oak, its roots torn from the earth to create a cavernous space beneath.

I drop to my knees, ignoring the stab of pain, and peer inside. It’s dark, but dry. Big enough for the girls, at least.

“In here,” I whisper, pushing them toward the hollow. “Quick.”

They hesitate, only for a moment. They scramble inside, pressing themselves as far back as they can go.

“Wait here. You understand?” I whisper. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Not until I come back.”

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