"You're hiding a child from me," he says finally. "My child. And you're pretending you cared about me while you were planning to disappear."
"I wasn't?—"
"Weren't you?" He steps closer, and I can smell the smoke still clinging to his clothes. "The second you found out about the baby, you were already planning your exit. Just like you planned your entrance. You probably have a fake passport and money stashed somewhere. Did Damir teach you that?"
The accusation hits too close to home. I had been thinking about leaving, about getting away from all of this before it consumed me completely. But hearing him say it, seeing the betrayal in his eyes, makes me realize how it must look to him.
"I was scared," I admit, the words torn from somewhere deep. "I was scared of what you would do if you knew. Scared of what it would mean."
"So you decided for both of us."
"Yes." The admission comes out as a whisper. "I decided for both of us."
We stare at each other across the small space, both breathing hard, both wounded by revelations that cut too deep.
"You were a mark," he says again, his voice low and dangerous. "Until you weren't. But you—" His jaw tightens. "You never stopped calculating, did you? Never stopped looking for the exit."
The words are cruel because they're true. I have been calculating, measuring risks, planning escapes. It's how I've survived this long. But hearing him say it, seeing the disappointment in his eyes, makes me feel hollow.
My hand moves before I can stop it, the sound of the slap echoing in the quiet room. His head snaps to the side, and for a moment, we both freeze. Then he turns back to me, his cheek red, his breathing ragged.
"I'm done," he says, stepping back. "I'm done with this."
He turns and walks toward the door, and I want to call him back, to take back the slap, to find some way to bridge the gap that has opened between us. But the words stick in my throat, and I can only watch as he reaches for the door handle.
"Maksim," I say, his name barely audible.
He pauses but doesn't turn around. "The medic will be back soon. Someone will be posted outside your door."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the machines and the antiseptic smell and the weight of everything I've broken. I sink back onto the bed, my hands shaking as I press my palms against my eyes. The tears come then, hot and relentless, and I cry into my hands until there's nothing left. I don't know how to fix any of this.
22
MAKSIM
Idrive through the night with blood under my fingernails and a name burning in my throat. Damir Mirov. Every mile I cover brings me closer to finding him, and every hour that passes makes the rage in my chest grow sharper.
The first Karpin runner lives in a flat above a kebab shop in the old district. I kick in the door at two in the morning and find him in bed with his girlfriend, both of them naked and high on something that makes their pupils look enormous. The girl screams when she sees me, but the runner tries to reach for a gun on the nightstand.
I grab his wrist and twist until I hear bones crack, then knock him in the face with my free hand. He drops the weapon and falls to his knees, clutching his broken arm against his chest. The girlfriend scrambles for the bathroom and locks herself inside, but I'm not interested in her.
"Where is he?" I ask, my voice calm despite the fury coursing through my veins.
The runner spits blood onto the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I pick up the gun he dropped and press the barrel against his temple. "Damir Mirov. Where is he hiding?"
"I swear to God, I don't know?—"
I pull the trigger. The bullet goes into the wall beside his head, and he collapses completely, sobbing and shaking. The girlfriend is screaming from the bathroom, but the sound is muffled by the door and the ringing in my ears.
"Next one goes in your skull," I tell him. "Start talking."
He gives me three addresses through his tears, but he can't promise me which, if any, is the correct one. I write them down on the back of my hand with a pen from the nightstand, then drag him to the bathroom door. I can hear the girlfriend crying on the other side, begging for her life in broken Russian.
"If you call anyone," I tell the runner, "if you warn anyone, I'll come back and finish what I started. Do you understand?"
He nods frantically, blood streaming from his nose where I hit him earlier. I leave him there and walk out into the night. The first address is twenty minutes away, and I've got work to do, so I don't waste any time. The higher the sun gets, the more risk I'm taking.
