Page 120 of Sexting the Pakhan

I try to stand. My leg refuses. Pain tears upward, and I drop back against the pavement, teeth clenched hard enough that my jaw aches.

The white van flashes past the gap between two parked cars and disappears down the service lane. For half a second, I think of the cases.

Then another shot hits the car near my shoulder, and glass breaks above me.

I roll clumsily, dragging the wounded leg, and get behind the rear tire. My breath comes rough now. Too rough. I press harder above the wound and look toward the shed.

The shooter is gone.

No. Not gone.

Moving.

I catch a shape slipping behind the dark side of the mechanic’s shed, calm and fast, weapon low. He’s not firing at the families. He’s not firing wild. He doesn’t look panicked.

He came for one thing.

Me.

I reach for my gun.

It’s not there.

The fall must have knocked it loose, or someone kicked it away in the rush. I look once, quickly, and see it lying near the edge of the lane, too far to reach without exposing myself.

Another wave of people runs between me and the gate. Small shoes. Paper crowns. A dropped cardigan. A phone ringing somewhere on the ground. Everything is too loud.

I try to pull myself farther behind the car, but my leg drags uselessly, leaving a dark smear on the pavement. The movement makes the edges of my vision flicker.

“Stepan,” I mutter.

No answer.

Only shouting.

Only the van getting farther away.

Only the shooter somewhere out of sight.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and for one absurd second, I think of the picture. Two little girls in a classroom, one smiling, one trying not to. The woman from the number asking me to delete it.

Then pain snaps me back.

I grip the edge of the tire and try once more to push myself up. My leg buckles before I get halfway. The world dips. I end up on one elbow, breathing hard, blood pooling warm beneath myknee, the painted fence swimming in and out of focus beyond the cars.

Children are still crying.

The van is gone.

My men are out of sight.

And as my vision blurs at the edges, one thought settles heavily through the pain.

I have been betrayed.

17

ZOYA