Page 207 of Sexting the Pakhan

Not clean. Not graceful. I don’t have enough strength left for either. I slam into him with my shoulder, all weight and bad temper and fear, and the force drives him sideways. The gun goes off, but the shot cracks into the sky instead of the trees.

Mila screams.

I don’t look at her. If I look, I’ll lose the second I have.

I grab Ilya’s wrist and twist hard enough that he curses. His other hand catches my shirt, and we crash together near the edge of the quarry. Gravel slides under my boots. My injured leg buckles immediately, but I keep my grip on him because if he gets free, he gets another shot.

Behind me, Dima shouts, “Get the girl!”

I hear movement from the right.

Someone starts after Mila.

Stepan moves too. I don’t know which direction he goes at first, and that’s the worst part. For half a breath, I think he’s running after her with the others. Then he cuts across their path and raises his gun, blocking the man closest to the trees.

“Leave her,” Stepan snaps.

The man stops, confused.

Dima swings his gun toward Stepan. “What are you doing?”

Stepan doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at Mila. His eyes stay on the men in front of him, and his gun stays steady. “I said leave her.”

Ilya tries to wrench free of my grip. “You picked a strange time to grow a conscience.”

Stepan’s face tightens, but he says nothing.

That answer tells me enough. He was in this. He let it happen. Maybe he tried to draw a line too late, maybe he thought there was still a version of betrayal that didn’t touch children. It doesn’t matter now. A late conscience is still a debt.

Ilya drives his elbow into my ribs. Pain bursts through my side, and my grip slips for half a second. He uses it, twisting away and bringing the gun back between us.

I catch the barrel with my hand. The metal is cold. His finger is already tightening.

I force the muzzle down as he fires. The shot cracks into the dirt near my foot. Heat and powder sting my hand. My bad leg gives again, and this time I go down to one knee.

Ilya smiles because he thinks that means he has me.

He steps closer. “You should have stayed away from her,” he says.

I look up at him. “From who?”

His smile widens. “Both of them.”

That’s the first time I truly want to kill him slowly.

I move from my knees. It’s ugly and desperate, but it works because he expects me to protect my leg. I don’t. I drive upward, catch him around the waist, and throw my full weight into him. We hit the ground hard, roll once, and come up too close to the edge.

The quarry drops away beside us, black and deep. Loose stones spill down into it, hitting rock below a moment later.

Ilya sees it too. For the first time, fear breaks through his face.

He punches me in the wound. White pain tears through me so sharply that I nearly lose my grip. My vision narrows. My stomach rolls. I can feel the stitches pull, feel warmth spread through the bandage.

Somewhere behind me, men are shouting over each other.

Mila is still running. I can hear her crying getting farther away, thin and frightened but moving. Moving is all that matters.

Ilya crawls backward, trying to get space. His gun is gone now, kicked somewhere in the gravel between us. I grab his ankle before he can stand.