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“Dmitry, help!” he shouted.
Meanwhile, Tess gathered her strength and kneed him in the crotch. All those years of soccer paid off. The blow didn’t knock him unconscious, but it disabled him enough to buy herself critical seconds. She raced over, squatted by Mark’s side, and shook his shoulder. “Get up.” Focused on rousing Mark, she couldn’t see behind her but felt her ankle yanked. Losing her balance, she stumbled and tripped before landing on the floor.
Somehow, Mark found his way to his feet, and he charged Sergey like a bull. Taking the gunman by surprise, he tackled him to the floor.
Free from Sergey’s grasp, Tess managed to stand and catch her breath.
In front of her, the two men rolled over each other on the floor twice, then again, intertwined in a macabre pas de deux. If anything, the blinded gunman renewed his savage assault of Mark, striking wildly and landing his fist with loud smacks.
Sergey kept grasping at the right side of his military fatigue pants, loose around his ankles.
A gun handle extended from one of the cargo pockets.
Mark slammed a round of punches at Sergey, which prevented him from retrieving his weapon. “Run, Tess! Go!” he shouted.
Dazed, she sucked in a breath and felt her beaten shoulder pound in time with her heartbeat. A soft clunk sounded near her, and when she turned, she spotted Sergey’s gun on the floor, partly covered by his pants. Instinct made her back away from the men dueling on the floor, and she sidestepped to avoid their flailing arms and legs. Biting her lip, she debated whether she could reach the gun but decided against it. The only gamble was whether Mark could endure a few more seconds.
Fueled by fury, she scrambled past piles of buckets, feed bags, and brooms. She bulldozed useless farm equipment out of her path. Around the corner, she glimpsed a formidable stick hanging on the wall. Yes. She grabbed it and sprinted back across the room, trying to figure out how best to intervene.
Sergey had rolled on top of Mark and straddled him so he couldn’t move. Like a sadistic machine, he pummeled Mark’s chest.
Yelling, Mark thrust his arms upward to block the hits, and he shoved his attacker’s chin up and away. His scarred left hand spasmed and dropped to his side, leaving him one arm to fight. Just then, he took a strike on his lower rib cage. A bone cracked, and Mark howled.
Sergey found the gun extending from his cargo pocket and clicked the safety off.
Watching Sergey taunt Mark, Tess wagered the gunman hadn’t spotted her standing behind them. However, Mark must have seen her, because he covered his head and bolted to his right, bucking Sergey off-balance.
The four steel tines of the pitchfork in Tess’s hands glinted in the light, and she tightened her grip on the handle. With her entire weight behind the pitchfork, she thrust it deep into Sergey’s back. The tines punctured first flesh, then muscle, and, with a final, bloody squish, organs. The sickening sound made her gasp, and her breath came in irregular bursts.
Wretched gagging sounds emitted from Sergey before he slumped over with a thud. His gun slipped out of his hand and dropped onto the floor. Blood flowed from his back and abdomen and pooled into a garish Rorschach pattern. His black pants lay twisted around his ankles, exposing his hairy legs.
Her heart thumped like a tom-tom, and every beat pounded inside her skull. She stared at the pitchfork, which remained lodged in Sergey’s back.
Mark rolled away from the body and struggled to his feet while clutching his rib cage. He leaned over and placed two fingers on the gunman’s neck. “He’s gone. You skewered him.”
Bountiful amounts of blood seeped onto the floor. As the red stain spread, she backed away and covered her mouth. The barn surroundings reappeared in her field of vision. “What have I done?”
“You saved my life.” Mark grabbed her and wound an arm around her.
A sob escaped her throat, and she peeked around his broad shoulder to stare at the corpse on the floor, fixating on the shiny steel tines. Electric shocks stung throughout her body, and lines deepened on her forehead. Numb with disbelief, she felt tingling in her cheeks.
“We need to go. Now, before Dmitry makes trouble.” He shook her arm to get her attention.
Spotting the gun on the floor, she rushed to pick it up and clicked the safety on. Wanting nothing from the gunman to touch her, she held it out. “I can shoot, but I don’t want to carry it.”
Mark nodded and slipped the weapon into the waistband of his trousers.
She stepped forward, her legs lurching, and she welcomed his hand on her back to guide her to the barn’s front door, which Sergey had left cracked open. A battered barn jacket hung on a hook next to the door.
“Cold night. You’ll need it.” He snatched it from the hook and placed it in her hands.
She slipped on the jacket, three sizes too big, and the excess cloth swallowed her slight frame. Muffled but agitated voices buzzed somewhere beyond the barnyard. A door slammed and startled her, but she shook off her fear and mobilized.
Outside the barn, the smell of manure hit her, but no cows were milling around. She signaled Mark to follow her and retraced the path she’d taken earlier that night. Spooked by a sudden burst of paranoia, she broke into a run. Heading behind a cluster of oak trees which lined the pasture, she aimed their trajectory far from the trailer, where she assumed Yuri and his gunmen were camped out. The earth beneath her feet was solid but damp. Wet autumn leaves lined the ground and hid the sound of their footsteps.
She knew they weren’t running fast enough. Once their captors found Sergey and Dmitry, they’d hunt them without mercy. Her adrenaline switched from fight to flight, and she accelerated her pace. Heat flushed her face, but her hands grew cold. After gesturing at Mark to hurry, she remembered his cracked ribs and regretted pressuring him.
He was trailing well behind.
