Page 83 of Sexting the Pakhan

Anton gets the gun. Not like a trained man making a move. More like an animal clawing out of a trap. But he gets it.

“Down!” Stepan yells.

The first shot goes into the desk. The sound punches through the office and kills every noise in the warehouse below.

Pavel drops behind the metal filing cabinet. Stepan pulls me sideways by the shoulder as another shot cracks past us and hits the window. Glass bursts inward, scattering across the floor.

Dima lunges for Anton.

Anton fires again.

Dima jerks back with a shout, clutching his arm.

Anton scrambles backward, still half dragging the loosened tie from one wrist, gun shaking in both hands. His face is white with panic. “Stay back!” he shouts.

No one moves toward him.

He swings the gun from Dima to Pavel to Stepan, then to me. His hand shakes so badly the barrel wavers. “I didn’t do it,” he says, voice breaking. “You hear me? I didn’t fucking do it.”

“Put the gun down,” I say.

He laughs once, too high. “So you can finish this quietly?”

“So you don’t die like an idiot.”

“I’m already dead.”

“Not yet.”

His eyes flick toward the door. That’s when I know he’s going to run.

“Anton,” I say again.

He fires at me. Stepan drags me down behind the crate beside the desk. The bullet tears through the wall where my chest was a second ago.

Dima goes for his backup weapon with his good hand. Pavel stays low, one hand pressed to his ear from the noise. Men are shouting below now, boots hitting concrete, but no one has a clear angle from the floor.

Anton backs toward the door, gun raised. “I didn’t sell you out!” he shouts.

Then he turns and runs.

He gets two steps into the doorway.

Ilya is coming up the stairs. He must have been posted outside the office. He hears the shots, reaches the landing, and sees Anton rushing out with Dima’s gun in his hand.

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “Drop it!” he shouts.

Anton lifts the gun instead.

Ilya fires once.

Anton’s body snaps backward. He hits the metal railing hard, one hand clutching at the air, the gun slipping from his fingers and clattering down the stairs. For a second, he stays upright only because the railing catches him.

Then his knees fold. He drops onto the landing.

I step out from behind the crate. Stepan rises beside me. Pavel pushes himself up slowly. Dima is breathing hard through his teeth, blood running down his sleeve, but he’s standing.

Ilya keeps his gun trained on Anton. “Don’t move,” he says, though Anton is already barely moving.