Page 7 of Pageant

Hope bursts through me. I can load the gun and shoot the assassin in the back before he can kill Mrs. Lugovskaya as well.

But as I fumble with the magazine, I realize I’m too late. The man has reached her. She screams, but the sound is cut short, and she makes a hideous gurgling noise, followed by the repeatedschhk, schhkof his stabs.

Then silence.

I look up. The man stands framed in the doorway, blood dripping down his chest and face. Looking me dead in the eyes, he grasps the blade at the hilt and slowly draws it through his fingers, wiping off blood, and revealing clean, shining steel.

Then he points the blade at me.

Now you.

I stand up and back away, fumbling with the magazine with sweat-slicked fingers. Turning it around and around. If I could only stop for a moment and look at it, I could load the gun.

“Can you even use that,neordinarnaya?” The man’s Russian accent is thick. He speaks in the same cold, gloating tone the assassins use in my nightmares. Then he laughs.

My terror is funny to him, and his ridicule sharpens my focus. I squeeze the magazine and realize by feel that it’s the right way around and slam it into the gun.

Then I aim it at his head.

Two-handed grip.

Breathe out.

A split second before I fire, his eyes widen. It’s the tiniest fraction of a moment, but I can see his surprise—shock—that I know what I’m doing, and I’m not going to hesitate, plead, question.

As if I want to ask this asshole any questions.

I pull the trigger, and he dives to the side. The gun kicks in my hand and the bullet pierces the plaster wall. Dismay plummets over me as I realize I’ve missed. The man is suddenly close enough to reach out and grab my ankle. His hand is closing in on me, quick as a snake. There’s no time to re-aim and fire again.

I pivot on my heel and run.

When I reach the door I glance back, just in time to see him disappearing out the window.

Shit.

He wouldn’t have jumped. We’re four floors up and the fall would have gravely injured him. There must be a parapet, or he’s clinging onto the carved stone and edging his way to another window. If I didn’t know better, I’d hope that he was fleeing from the double murder, but there’s no chance of that. I’ve seen his face. Worse, I’ve seen his tattoos. You can read Russian prison tattoos like a book if you know what you’re looking at. They identify him better than a set of fingerprints. He won’t stop until I’m dead.

I walk quickly and quietly through the apartment, holding the gun at eye level and checking every corner before I proceed, ready to shoot anything that moves. I keep searching until I find the back stairs.

I pull the stairwell door open and listen. No voices. No footsteps. Didn’t anyone hear Mrs. Lugovskaya screaming?

The stairs descend into deep shadows. I fumble for a switch, reluctant to plunge into darkness while there’s a knife-wielding murderer on the loose.

A figure rushes out of the stairwell, both arms spread, and tackles me to the ground. I don’t even have time to scream as I’m forced back into the apartment. I hit the wooden floor, and the gun flies out of my hand. I smell blood, and the stranger’s skin is wet and slick. I hit and kick as hard as I can, but he’s on top of me. I brace for the vicious stab of his knife, but it doesn’t come.

Something slips around my neck and pulls tight.

My eyes bulge. I can’t breathe.I can’t fucking breathe.

The man pants in my ear. He holds the garrote with one hand while he searches his pocket for something else. I scrabble at the cord with my nails. Something sharp stabs me in the side of the neck.

The man lets go of the garrote. I sit up and half-turn toward him, my hand clamped to the side of my neck and my mouth open in horror. There’s an injector pen in his hand. Light-headedness washes over me.

“What did you stick me with?” My tongue feels thick in my mouth. My eyelids are heavy and there’s a buzzing in the base of my skull. I try to gather my legs under me but they’re weighted down and useless.

The man gathers me gently against his blood-streaked chest. He cradles me in his arms and presses his lips against my ear, and in his heavy accent, he says, “That was unexpected,neordinarnaya. None of the others put up such a fight.”

My head spins and my whole body goes limp against his. What others?

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