Page 119 of Sexting the Pakhan

“He ducked behind the van. Malik shifted for angle and?—”

The first shot cracks through the evening.

For a fraction of a second, no one understands what they heard.

Then the second shot comes, and the world breaks open. A window near the back of the kindergarten shatters. Someone screams from the front entrance. Parents drop bags, grab children, run without direction because panic never chooses the best path first. A car alarm starts wailing. Paper crowns scatter across the pavement as a group of children is shoved behind a parked minivan by a teacher who moves faster than most trained men I know.

“Down!” Stepan shouts.

I move toward the gate.

Not away. Toward it. Because the shots are coming from the service side, and the children are at the front, and if the men behind this want chaos, the fastest way to make them pay for it is to get between them and the crowd.

Another shot hits the brick pillar near the entrance, sending chips of stone into the air.

Pavel fires once toward the service lane.

I catch movement near the back fence. A man in a dark jacket. Not Lenkov. Too tall.

Then a muzzle flash from the mechanic’s shed.

My mind catches up. Fuck it. We were expected tonight. It was a fucking setup.

“Left!” I shout.

Stepan turns and fires toward the shed.

The crowd at the front is still moving, screaming, stumbling over dropped bags and children’s artwork. I catch movement from the corner of my eye, but I’m distracted by the children. More specifically, I’m distracted by the little girls I saw in the picture. Are they here?

The shot comes from the mechanic’s shed.

I see the flash first. Then my leg gives out.

There is a strange half second where my body understands before I do. My right foot slips, my knee folds, and the pavement comes up too fast. I catch the side of the car with one hand, but my grip slides off the wet metal.

Pain opens through my thigh, hot and deep.

I hit the ground hard.

For a moment, all I hear is noise without really registering it. Screaming from the front of the kindergarten. Car doors slamming. Someone shouting a child’s name again and again. The sharp crack of another shot somewhere behind me. Tires screeching from the service lane.

I press my hand to my leg. Blood warms my palm immediately.

Not fatal.

Bad, but not fatal.

That is the first useful thought.

The second is that I am alone.

Not fully alone. My men are here. Somewhere. But the first shot scattered the line. The crowd pushed between us.

Pavel’s voice comes through the chaos from too far away, cut off by gunfire and people running. “Rus?—”

Then nothing.

I turn my head, trying to find Stepan. A car blocks my view. A mother drags a child behind it, crouched low, both of them crying. A teacher waves families toward the entrance with both arms, her voice breaking as she keeps shouting, “Inside, inside, please get inside.”