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People in the lobby screamed, followed by more shots.
For some reason, the screaming more than Feodor’s command, is what got people moving. We scattered to the four winds right as the doors to the auditorium burst open.
Bullets sprayed the stage wildly, in a random sweeping pattern instead of calculated shots. It reminded me of a school shooting rather than a targeted murder. A second wave of gunmen came in, picking off people one by one after the initial assault.
When the first bullet whizzed by, I ducked and launched myself behind the thick velvet curtain. Pressing myself up against one of the lighting pillars, I scrambled to pull my phone out.
There was already a text from Ilya I’d missed with my phone on vibrate.
HIDE
I texted him back, asking where he was. Not that I expected him to answer me in the middle of a gunfight, but I was at least hoping to see the little dots to indicate he was even alive, or the timestamp showing he’d read the message.
Nothing.
Heavy footsteps clomped down the aisle.
I angled myself behind the pillar, peering out through a slice between the curtains. There were six of them, fanned out through the auditorium, methodically checking the rows. They were dressed like they were ready for battle, in an array of black with a variety of guns between them. This wasn’t some random shooting. This was planned. The question was, who were they after?
They shot in another high, sweeping arc and then a second, lower one. Someone shrieked and collapsed somewhere in the darkness behind the stage. The gunmen talked to one another in what sounded like Russian and split up into two-man teams, approaching the stage from different angles, including the orchestra pit.
In a matter of moments, one of them would come around the curtain, which meant I couldn’t fucking stay here. Dialing Sasha’s number, I tucked the phone back into my pocket and hurried along backstage as quietly as I could, praying I didn’t fucking trip over cords or props.
My original thought to hide in the tunnel connecting the orchestra pit to backstage was no longer an option. I didn’t have time to climb up into the catwalk, nor did I want to be a target up there, anyway.
Sprinting down the back hallway, I ducked into the first open door I came to — the costume workshop.
I scanned the area quickly before darting toward the huge wardrobe pushed against the center wall.
Instead of climbing into the wardrobe, I wheeled a rack of costumes closer and hid along the side of it, thanking God for the giant, poofy costumes left over from one of the Shakespearean productions. At least this way I could keep an eye on the door and run if I had to instead of being trapped in a giant wooden box, waiting to be shot like a fish in a barrel.
Slipping my phone out, I was relieved to see the line was still open. I pressed it to my ear and whispered Sasha’s name.
“Roan?! Don’t talk. We’re on our way.”
“How long?”
“Stop fucking talking!” He snapped at someone in Russian. A series of guns cocked and magazines slammed into place, followed by an equally snarly response from whoever was driving. An engine gunned in the background. “Five minutes. No more fucking talking!”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. I was going to listen this time, so help me God. Just knowing Sasha was on his way kept me from freaking the fuck out. He’d get here in time. I knew he would. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen. Not again.
Closing my eyes, I tried to block out memories of the alley, the bank robbery, all of it. Inevitably, my brain couldn’t help but compare those situations to my current one, trying to find similarities or patterns to make sense out of.
Who the hell would want to shoot up a theater? A closed theater, at that. I had no idea. They seemed organized, almost military-style, which led me to believe this wasn’t some random gang. They spoke Russian, which did absolutely nothing to narrow down the list of potential enemies. And I still had no idea who their target would be. Feodor? I guess he had money. Sergei definitely had money and I’m sure would pay anything to get his family back.
Each minute that ticked by seemed to last an hour.
Another barrage of gunfire sounded somewhere in the theater, except now it sounded like shots were flying back and forth instead of being one-sided. Hope sprang inside my chest. Maybe Sasha was here. Otherwise, who the fuck was shooting back?
I should have called the police. Any normal person would have. But somehow I also knew involving the police in whatever this was wouldn’t be good for anyone — Sasha, Feodor, and especially Sergei. Besides, Feodor had his phone out too. Did he call the cops? Or did he call Sergei?
Heavy footfalls clomped down the hallway outside the workshop. I held my breath, waiting to see who came into view. When I saw an arm full of Russian tattoos, I almost stood up, until I saw the man’s face.
It wasn’t Sasha.
It was two of the gunmen, circling the room and checking under sewing tables. I could only see their legs as they stopped and turned in my direction, murmuring to one another.
Suddenly their boots were on the move. One of them stood back while the other surged forward and yanked the wardrobe door open.
