Dirty Little Wars 02: Barcelona

THE ASSASSIN

The figure charges through the balcony doors, well-built and light on his feet. He's wearing all black, boots, fatigues, a turtleneck and a balaclava. He's wordless and terrifying, and all I can think is it's going to be quick.

There's no time to scream, even though I want to.

He rushes forward, and I see his eyes, his fists... the sight of one hand closed around a thin pencil-like object of clear plastic.

A syringe.

"No," I whisper just before he gets to us.

I shove Blumkin through the bathroom door, and stand in front of him, looking for the blow that's going to come at me.

I never see it.

The assassin plants his boot in my stomach and kicks me back against the wall. I crash into the tile. Brutal. Blinding. Pain. The impact rips agony through my shoulder, my ribs. I drop to the floor, wheezing for air. The bathroom seems to warp. Hazy. Dark at the edges. My heart squeezes so hard I can't breathe.

I hear Blumkin pleading. The assassin drags him up by the neck and pushes the syringe needle into the soft skin under his jaw. The smaller man twists like a fish on a hook, his eyes bulging wide. The assassin is sheer muscle, unmoving as Blumkin's mouth fills with foamy saliva, his fingers spasming so hard it looks like he's caught in hot electrical current.

Fuck you!

I bring my legs underneath me and push up into a crouch. Slipping my hand under my skirt, I fumble with the release strap around the knife handle.

The assassin is standing above me, ready to kill anyone in his path; so certain that he can. He's not even looking. He thinks my fear is going to keep me in place; that I'm going to sit here with the denial screaming in my head so loud that I'm not going to fight. Panic. Weakness. Frailty. I feel it all; shaking and useless. The unbearable cold, the weightlessness, the paralysis that isn't real.

But at the center of it, I feel rage.

Fight! Kill that stupid fuck! Who are you? WHO ARE YOU!

I rip the knife out of its sheath and leap to my feet, shoving the blade under the man's ribcage with both hands. It's an upward swing, with my full momentum behind it, and the knife sinks to the handle.

I yell through my teeth, pulling it out.

The man howls, stumbling backward.

Blumkin drops to the floor.

Blood splatters across the tile. I can smell it. Taste it.

The assassin falls through the bathroom door, then pushes up on all fours, crawling for the balcony. He reaches for one of the chairs, pulling himself to his feet, though his gait is pained; unbalanced.

"You came here to kill!" I accuse, following him as he tries to escape. "Go on! Finish the job, stupid fuck! Face me!"

He makes a harsh noise under his breath and I kick him in the back, forcing him to collapse on the floor. He lands on his shoulder, cursing in pain.

"Who sent you?" I ask him, dizzy and feeling like I'm about to fall over too.

He pivots and sweeps me behind the knee.

I crash onto the floor next to him.

The assassin looks at me, his dark eyes furious, and clamps his hand around my neck. Fuck! I grit my teeth.

I swing the knife and gouge the blade into his arm.

Once. And again. And again. I plunge it through fabric and skin, the blade already wet with his blood.

He curses again and releases me. Rolling onto his side, he pulls himself up and lunges for the darkness outside. He reaches the railing, throwing one leg over and struggling with the effort. I watch him hold his arm tightly against his ribs to brace himself. Then he jumps.

The door to the outside corridor is thumping with hard blows that are suddenly louder than the music. The wood is splintering in the frame.

Mateo is trying to get through.

"Clear!" I yell, knowing that he will respond to that specific word. I pull myself up then stagger to the door. "Clear. Unlocking..."

I turn the key and it opens from the other side. Mateo appears in a bladed stance with his gun drawn. He comes through, leading with his weapon and sweeping the room with the muzzle.

"It's clear," I tell him. "He escaped from the balcony."

Mateo nods then closes the door behind him.

He focuses on me and winces. "Zoya?"

"I'm not..."

"There's blood on your face... on your lip."

Lip? I struggle to remember... maybe the hit against the wall, but my tongue doesn't hurt. My teeth are all in place. It's possible that he bled on me. I start wiping my mouth with my sleeve.

"Sit down," he says, guiding me back to wood chair. "Don't try to get up."

Blood is dribbled on the floor. Red handprints stain the railing.

Mateo moves to the balcony and peers over the rail, scanning across the garden outside. Shaking his head, he comes back, locks the balcony doors behind him, and holsters his Makarov.

"Blumkin," I murmur. "The bathroom."

He nods and disappears through the open doorway.

"Gone," he says a moment later.

I nod. I'd hoped maybe... but, of course, that was wishful denial. Blumkin was dead the minute the assassin inserted the needle in his neck.

I want to feel worse about it than I do. I want to feel like Blumkin's murder matters to me in a visceral way, but I can't. Maybe it's the shock, but more likely, the reality of it is simply drowned out by the soaring high that comes after surviving an attack. No one tells you how powerful that is. No one tells you that there's a moment when nothing else matters, not objectives, not outcomes, not even the lives of the people around you. Bravery might be the ability to make all those things critical when it counts, but when its all over, nothing can fully suppress the release that comes from having another day on Earth after someone has tried to take it from you.