The Darkness Within

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Two

Kira

The scissors swing in a soundless arc in the air as I leap onto my uncles back, aiming for his carotid artery. I don't give him a chance to fight back or make any noise; wrapping my legs around his waist and free hand around his mouth, I slice the scissors through skin and artery until I'm positive he's fatally wounded, and blood practically sprays from the wound. Then, it's a matter of holding on and keeping my hand over his mouth as he starts to grunt and buck despite his waning energy, trying to throw me off and alert the guard standing outside. Blood starts to seep from his mouth between my fingers, making it too slippery to hold on to.

He manages to let out an audible gurgle before tipping over backwards. I let go of him instantly, grunting at the impact of my spine along the hard floor and rolling to the side before he can crush me under his weight. My injured ankle bangs against the metal bedpost, and I slap a hand over my mouth—the one still dripping with my uncles blood—to stifle my own cry.

Forcing aside my pain and suspicion that if my ankle hadn't been broken before, it certainly is now, I force myself to sit up and assess the situation in the same way Sergei taught me to. My uncle is on the ground on his back, body twitching convulsively and life slowly seeping out of his eyes, which are locked on me with a look of awe and perhaps even the strangest glint of pride. I shove the scissors back in my bra, not willing to part with the weapon that ended up being more useful than I could've hoped.

From outside I hear three knocks on the door, before a guard calls out in Ukrainian, "Boss? Everything okay in there? I heard thuds."

I lunge at Mikhail, shoving his suit jacket open and yanking the gun from the holster under his arm. I flick off the safety, cock it, roll my still-gurgling uncle onto his side to use his body as a shield, and brace my hands on his shoulder before aiming the gun at the door.

Then, I call out with all the panic I should be feeling considering circumstances, "Help! I think he's having a heart attack!"

The door crashes open. The guard takes one look at me, crouched behind my bloodied uncle, and reaches for the gun holstered at his hip. Before he can even get a grip on it I fire; the bullet lands right between his eyebrows, and he drops to the floor.

The gun doesn't have a silencer and made quite the bang, so if the remaining guards at the compound aren't already alerted that something's off, they will be now. Which means I need to move fast, and create a diversion to distract their attention.

I rise to the ground, hissing at the pain that's now shooting along my entire leg, and half-run, half-limp to the guard, making quick work snatching his gun and stuffing it in the back of my waistband. Sergei once told me you can never have too many guns or bullets when in a firefight; I have every intention of putting his teachings to good use and getting the hell out of here.

I check the chamber of the gun in my hand, counting seven bullets remaining, and rush out of the door as fast as I can on a completely dysfunctional ankle. It only takes a few steps into the hall for me to know my injury is turning into a serious impairment that may well hinder my escape; it wobbles painfully with each step, preventing the stability that running requires.

I hear echoes of footsteps growing closer; too many to make out the exact number of people coming for me, but it doesn't sound like an army—maybe one or two dozen men at most. The footsteps are also coming from all different directions; above, below, and on the same level as me from different halls. In the bedroom, I hear the guard's walkie-talkie crackle on with static, the person on the other end demanding an explanation for the gunshots.

Fuck. I ram open the first door I come across, practically leap inside, and shut it. The guards will likely assume I've made a break for it already; I doubt they'll check this floor as thoroughly as they should. After all, an escapee normally does whatever it takes to escape and nothing more. Nobody sane would stick around. Me, however? I have quite a bit of resentment to burn off, as I've spent the last many hours experiencing terror like never before at the thought of Sergei being dead.