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I stamp on my captor’s foot and throw my head back. The back of my skull catches his nose, and his grip loosens.
I twist toward Alexei, but the bastard recovers fast and locks his arm around my waist again. Alexei fires. The man jerks me sideways, and the bullet strikes the doorframe.
He drags me backward through the broken opening. My nails catch the metal edge, but he tears my hands free and pulls me toward the second ambulance.
The attacker I stabbed limps back into the second ambulance.
Dmitri rounds the front of our vehicle with his pistol raised.
An explosion sounds behind us. Through the smoke, I see the black SUV burning across the road. Flames climb from its hood, holding Ilya and the other Volkov vehicles on the far side.
The man holding me turns me toward Dmitri and keeps the gun pressed beneath my chin. Dmitri raises his pistol, but my captor pulls me in front of him before he can take it.
Dmitri’s pistol follows us, but he can’t fire without risking me.
“Let her go,” he says, moving closer.
My captor backs toward the second ambulance, keeping my body between them. He knows Dmitri won’t take the shot.
The rear doors of the second ambulance swing open. Another man grabs my arms and hauls me inside while my captor fires at Dmitri. The shot forces him behind the front of our damaged ambulance.
Alexei reaches the broken side door, dragging one leg behind him. His face is white, and blood runs from the hand gripping the frame.
“Vera!” he shouts as he tries to climb down.
The man behind me kicks the back of my knee and forces me onto the floor.
The doors start to close.
Alexei raises his pistol, and for one second, I see him through the narrowing space. He takes another step, loses his balance, and catches the damaged door with one hand.
Then the doors slam shut.
The second ambulance surges forward. I roll against a metal cabinet as it takes the emergency lane and clears the burning SUV.
One captor kneels on my back while another pulls my wrists together. He uses wide nylon transport restraints with steel buckles, then fastens them to a floor ring.
The man I stabbed lies on the opposite bench, gripping his thigh. A dark patch spreads around the torn fabric, and his left boot turns inward when he tries to stand.
I hold on to that.
Left limp. Deep voice. Hospital badge with a cracked blue corner.
The ambulance smells of diesel, smoke, and chlorhexidine. A loose oxygen bottle knocks against its bracket every time we turn.
Right at the end of the bridge.
Left after the railway crossing.
Long straight road.
Two sharp turns close together.
The man behind me removes my phone and drops it into a black evidence pouch.
“She stuck me,” the injured one says, pressing gauze against his leg.
“Shut up, Makar,” the driver calls through the partition.
