Page 4
Marina glances at me, but she has the good sense to keep working. I repair what I can, pack what I can’t, and ask his body for another ten minutes.
His heart gives out after three.
The monitor changes first. One beat stutters, and the next comes late.
The anesthetist leans forward. “Vera.”
“I see it.”
Alexei’s pressure disappears. The line on the monitor drops flat, and under my hands, his heart stops.
2
ALEXEI
Смерть любит пунктуальность. Я, к сожалению, нет.
Death appreciates punctuality. Unfortunately for death, I don’t.
My father used to say it whenever a bullet missed him, which happened less often than he liked to claim. It returns to me now because I’m awake, my right wrist is strapped to a hospital bed, and an electronic monitor is announcing every heartbeat as if I’m desperate to hear the next one.
I open my eyes and take inventory. Pain stretches across my chest and digs deeper behind my ribs, my abdomen pulls whenever I breathe, and my left thigh is bandaged and elevated. There’s an IV in each arm, a central line below my collarbone, oxygen in my nose, and enough stitches in me to begin an embroidery business. My throat feels scraped raw from a breathing tube.
Three gunshots, unless the shooters became enthusiastic after I lost consciousness.
The nurse beside me notices I’m awake and rises too quickly. She’s young, exhausted, and trying not to look at my restrained hand.
“Mr. Orlov, don’t move.”
I test the strap. “An excellent suggestion made useless by the fact that you tied me down.”
“You tried to remove your central line.”
“Did I succeed?”
Her eyes narrow. “No.”
“Then I understand the restraint.”
Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. She expected fury, as people often do when they confuse a quiet man with a patient one.
“Where are my clothes?” I ask.
The nurse glances toward a disposal bin I can’t see. “They were cut off.”
“Tragic. I liked that suit.”
“You were shot three times,” she reminds me. “Stop talking and save your breath.”
Then she presses the call button and reaches for a small cup. “You can have a little water.”
I test the restraint again. “Can I have my right hand?”
“You can’t.”
“Then hold the water closer. We’ll both learn something about trust.”
She raises the head of the bed, holds a straw to my mouth, and allows me two small sips before taking the cup away. I swallow carefully and study the glass panel beyond her. Two of my men stand outside. One has a bandage around his head, and neither looks away from the corridor for more than a second. The guards’ posture tells me the breach was worse than the nurse will admit.
