Page 38 of Breakdown
“Nothing is ever easy with your fucking family,” Volkov spat, blood burbling out between his lips and down his chin. “I should’ve known one of you would be back to finish the dirty work. It’s a shame it’s not your sister. That cunt deserves this even more than you.” Volkov smiled then, grisly and red, as he levelled the barrel of the shotgun at Peter’s chest with caustic precision.
Peter clenched his eyes shut; he summoned Nik’s face in his mind. If he was going to die, he should be thinking of something that mattered.
He flinched at the deafening burst of gunfire in his ears, waiting for the hot sting of lead that never came.
“We better get out of here,” his mother said, touching his shoulder lightly with the butt end of a semi-automatic she’d presumably lifted off one of the corpses. She’d used it to put a clean, fatal shot through the center of Volkov’s heart.
“Yeah,” Peter agreed faintly, watching the Russian slump lifelessly onto the cold concrete.
He was trying not to think about the fact that that was almost him. “Thank you,” he managed.
“Don’t mention it. Just move,” his mother replied.
The awful ringing in Peter’s ears gave way to a keening sound worse than the growing wail of the approaching sirens. Jordan. It was all too loud, happening too fast, and he couldn’t fucking think. The kid curled into himself tightly, the blood spreading out in a sickening puddle around Peter’s feet.
“Let me see,” Peter said, crouching down beside him, feeling the seconds slip between his fingers. Through the window, he spotted the first officers exiting their cruiser at the sound of the shot, presumably making the choice not to wait any longer for backup. They were already working on the lock at the gate.
He lifted Jordan’s shirt as gently as he could to assess the damage. The scattershot fanned out in a pattern as large as Peter’s hand, dozens of dime-sized holes punched deep into the kid’s abdomen.
Jordan gripped Peter’s arm with surprising strength, his eyes large and struggling to focus. “Is it bad, Chief?”
“Looks worse than it is.” It came out choked. He pulled his sweater over his head, balling it and applying pressure to the mess that used to be Jordan’s stomach. He eased Jordan’s hands onto the shirt. “Hold that there. Don’t worry; we’re going to get you all patched up.” He slotted his shoulder into Jordan’s armpit, attempting to haul him into a standing position.
The kid moaned, his face going the color of spoiled milk as the sweater slipped from his hand.
Peter pushed it back into the wound as hard as he dared, eliciting another agonized sound. “Up you go.” His shoes slid on the blood-slicked floor and he couldn’t seem to get the right angle, Jordan dead-weight in his arms. He wasn’t sure how the hell he was going to get him off the concrete, never mind to the alley to the getaway car.
“Peter,” Cynthia said. “We gotta go. Come on. Back door,” she said, pointing down a dark hallway that led into the rear of the warehouse.
“Help me carry him,” Peter pleaded, his voice cracking. “We can’t just leave him here.” Jordan deserved better than that. The kid didn’t deserve to take the rap for this. He didn’t deserve to die alone.
Peter swore as Jordan’s limp hand slipped off the sweater again. He hastily reapplied pressure, even though it didn’t seem to be doing any good. The thick wool was completely soaked through already.
His mother was already moving toward the hallway. “Look, kiddo, that cruiser’s just a preview; in a few minutes this place is going to be swarming with cops. They’ll call an ambulance for him, but we’ve got to get out of here. I just shot a guy. I’m not going to prison for this shit.”
Peter tried again, a futile, slippery crabwalk, barely dragging Jordan half a foot. The kid’s eyes fluttered backwards into his head, a groan wrung out from his lips. Another warm gush of blood flowed over Peter’s clenched fist.
“He’s going to bleed out if I let go,” Peter hissed at Cynthia.
“He’s going to bleed out anyway. You’re not helping anything by staying here and getting caught.”
He eased Jordan back onto the floor, the taste in his mouth sour. “But he’s—”
“A lost cause.”
Peter knew a thing or two about lost causes.
She squeezed him urgently, pressing a nerve just above his clavicle so hard that he felt his arm numb a little. “You’ve got to look out for yourself, sweet-pea.”
Peter was beginning to think that was the Bauer family motto. He laughed, bitterly, unable to meet her gaze. “Listen, go ahead and start the car, okay? I’ll catch up with you. But I’m staying until he gets some help.”
Cynthia eyes flicked back and forth, panicked. “Don’t be stupid.”
He shook his head, aiming a rueful smile in her direction. “Can’t seem to help it.”
His mother’s face softened slightly as she turned to go, pausing in the threshold. “I’ll wait as long as I can, sweet-pea.”
“I’ll see you soon,” Peter said numbly, watching her receding back as she disappeared down the hallway.
