Page 285 of Sexting His Assistant

“Medical kit,” Luka says. “Now. Call Mirov. Tell him gunshot wound, severe blood loss, possible internal damage. We are not waiting for an ambulance.”

Sergei moves.

Dima shouts orders from somewhere behind us.

The remaining men are being dragged down, disarmed, zip-tied, kicked away from weapons. Someone is screaming. Someone else is begging. I hear none of it properly.

I only hear Misha breathing.

Each breath is a fight.

“Misha,” I say. “Stay awake.”

His eyes open a little. “I’m tired,” he whispers.

“No,” I say immediately. “No, you don’t get to be tired. You are not allowed.”

“Yes. And you still have to listen to me.”

Luka presses harder on the wound.

Misha groans again, then his eyes roll back slightly.

“No,” I say, panic rising. “No, no, no. Misha.”

Luka leans closer. “Hale.”

No response.

“Misha,” Luka says, louder. “Look at me.”

Misha’s eyelids move, but they don’t open.

My hands shake over Luka’s. “Do something.”

“I am,” Luka says.

“Do more.”

His eyes meet mine for one second. He does not snap. He does not tell me to calm down. He just says, “I will.”

Sergei drops the medical kit beside him.

Luka rips it open and works fast, too practiced. Gauze. Pressure wrap. Something to pack the wound. Sergei helps. Dima covers them. One of the men brings a stretcher from the SUV.

I stay by Misha’s head, touching his face with trembling fingers.

His skin is too cold.

“Misha,” I whisper. “Please.”

Luka says, “We move him now.”

They lift him.

Misha does not wake.

I stand too fast and nearly fall.