Page 8 of Gunnar

He looks at the body.

Then he lifts his head.

Our eyes meet. My spine stiffens.

For a second, neither of us moves. The overhead lights are bright, unforgiving. I see his face clearly—the nose that looks broken, the scar running down the right side of his face, the cruelty in his expression. He sees that I see him.

I take a step back.

He starts toward me.

He has already decided something. I can see it in the way his gaze sharpens, narrowing to a single point—me.

Then, from below us, tires screech against concrete.

A car door slams.

“Police! Don’t move!”

The shout echoes up the ramp.

He stops.

His head turns toward the sound. For a fraction of a second, calculation replaces everything else.

Boots pound against the lower level. Another voice joins the first. Metal scrapes—a car door being thrown open.

He looks back at me.

There’s no panic in his face. Only recognition.

“Ya tebya naydu!”

The words cut clean through the garage.

Russian.

I don’t understand them, but I understand they are meant for me.

He turns and runs, disappearing between two rows of parked cars and toward the far exit ramp.

A moment later, officers flood the level, weapons drawn.

“Hands where we can see them!”

“Stay back!”

I don’t realize they’re speaking to me until someone grabs my shoulders and pulls me aside.

The body is still on the ground.

Blood has begun to spread in a dark shape across the concrete.

I am still standing exactly where I was when it happened.

And I know he’ll remember my face as clearly as I remember his.

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