Page 208 of Sexting the Pakhan

He kicks me in the face.

My mouth fills with blood, but I hold on.

He kicks again, and the heel catches my shoulder. I pull hard, dragging him back toward me, then climb over him with my good knee planted in the dirt and my hand around his throat.

He grabs my wrist with both hands, eyes wide now. “You don’t have the strength,” he chokes.

He’s wrong. I have exactly enough strength for this.

Then a gun cocks behind me.

“Let him go,” Dima says.

I don’t move.

Ilya’s breathing scratches under my hand.

Dima steps closer. “Ruslan.”

I turn my head just enough to see him.

Dima has his gun pointed at me. Kirill stands behind him, shaking so badly the weapon in his hand keeps dipping toward the ground. Lenkov is farther back, watching the tree line where Mila disappeared. Stepan stands between two of the warehouse men, gun raised, his face hard and blank.

No one is in control anymore.

I release Ilya slowly.

He coughs and rolls away from me, one hand at his throat.

Dima says, “Stand up.”

I laugh once, because the order is absurd with my leg half-open and the ground sliding under me.

“I’m serious,” Dima says.

“I know.”

“Then stand.”

I push myself up. My injured leg trembles. Blood runs hot down the inside of my trousers. I keep my face still anyway, because they have already taken too much from me tonight and they don’t get the satisfaction of seeing the rest.

Ilya gets to his feet beside me, still coughing. His face is red, his eyes wet with rage.

“Shoot him,” he says.

Nobody does.

That’s useful.

I look at Dima first. “You want to do it?”

His jaw tightens.

“Go on,” I say. “You’ve been waiting years to see if I bleed like everyone else. You’ve seen it now. Finish the work.”

Dima’s gun stays up, but his finger doesn’t move.

I look at Kirill. “You?”