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“Oh my God…” My legs turned to lead and all I could do was stare.
Sasha kept me moving, his arm tightening around my neck. I clung to his waist, twisting my fingers into the fabric of his shirt to keep from collapsing.
I’d just been with those people. Minutes ago. I’d been right next to Samuel. He’d been hit half a dozen times. At least. If he’d sat closer, maybe one of those bullets would have hit me. Maybe I’d be dead instead of him. Maybe we’d both be dead.
“Don’t look back,” Sasha said as we made our way up the aisle.
A sudden burst of sunlight hit me when we entered the lobby. I blinked against it, shielding my eyes with one hand while trying to process the new horror in front of me.
There was a dead body sprawled in the center of the lobby, one of the gunmen apparently. One of the janitors was slumped over at the base of the stairs with a slew of bullets in his back.
Misha’s head snapped toward us. A visible look of relief washed over him. “The rest?”
“Dead,” Sasha replied flatly. “Ilya?”
Misha tipped his chin toward the front office. Polina’s office.
Creeping forward, I peered inside. There was a man kneeling next to Ilya, his hands bloody and moving quickly. Ilya’s shirt was ripped open, his torso riddled with bullet holes. Blood spilled all around him.
Somehow, remarkably, he was alive, gasping and groaning. Behind him, Polina lay face down in a pool of her own blood.
As soon as he saw us, Ilya grimaced, a rush of tears leaking from the corner of his eye. “Sasha. I’m—”
“Don’t talk,” Misha snapped.
Ilya continued anyway, swallowing thickly. “I’m sorry.”
“Listen to your uncle,” Sasha said, his tone surprisingly gentle.
The man working on him dug into the kit at his side and stuffed wads of cotton into one of the wounds. “He needs a hospital,” he said over his shoulder, obviously directing the statement at Misha. “Now.”
Misha nodded and started texting.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya repeated, closing his eyes.
I slipped away from Sasha and eased into the office. Edging around the blood, I knelt next to Ilya’s head, smoothing his hair back. “Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I failed.”
“Shh. You didn’t fail. I’m fine.” I grabbed his hand, surprised when he squeezed the hell out of it despite the trembling.
“I should have been with you.”
Misha growled something in Russian. Sasha replied, earning him a glare. Whatever the reason was, Sasha didn’t take kindly to it. He strode forward and seized Misha’s bicep, yanking him several steps away to continue their heated conversation in whispers.
I kept my focus on Ilya until two guys showed up and shooed me out of the way so they could put him on a stretcher. I thought I’d see them wheel him out to an ambulance, but no. He went into the back of a black Mercedes van and disappeared down the road, no flashing lights, no sirens. I didn’t know where the hell they were taking him, but my thoughts went with him.
Misha didn’t stick around. After a final snarl at Sasha, he stormed out the front doors.
“You can’t kill him,” I said as soon as Misha was gone.
Sasha turned to me with a blink. “What?”
“Ilya. You can’t kill him,” I reiterated, clenching my hands into fists — hands that were still coated in Ilya’s blood. “I’m not hurt. I’m certainly not dead. Those were your rules, so technically he didn’t fail. You can’t kill him.”
“I’m not going to kill him.” He reached out with his left hand and cupped my cheek. “Let’s get out of here before another crew comes.”
“What do you mean ‘another’?”
