Page 60 of Last Hand

I twist beneath him, finding leverage where there shouldn’t be any. My knee drives upward, missing its target and connecting with his thigh hard enough to make him shift. That slight adjustment is all I need. I slam my elbow into his throat, not a direct hit, just enough to make him gasp and loosen his grip.

“Fucking bitch,” he chokes out, his accent thickening with rage. Blood from his head wound drips onto my face, warm and copper-scented. “You’re dead. All of you.”

I don’t waste breath responding. Instead, I dig my nails into his eyes, not scratching, gouging, pressing with every ounce of strength I possess. He rears back with a howl, hands flying to his face. I use the moment to squirm from beneath him, scrambling backward in the dirt like some desperate animal.

My palms sink into the soft earth, pine needles and fallen leaves sticking to my wet clothes. Every instinct screams at me to run, to follow Fallon and the girls into the safety of the trees. That will get them caught, they need more time.

Igor recovers quickly, too quickly. He lunges forward, grabbing my ankle and yanking me back toward him. My chin hits the ground, teeth snapping together with enough force to make my vision blur. The taste of blood fills my mouth; I’ve bitten my tongue or my cheek, I can’t tell which.

He flips me over roughly, straddling me again. His face is a mask of fury, eyes red where my nails got him, blood still seeping from the temple wound. I try to twist away, and he pins my arms with his knees, the pressure sending bolts of pain shooting through my shoulders.

“You think you can take what belongs to him?” Igor snarls, his spit landing on my face as he leans close. “The girls are his. You are his. No one leaves.”

I spit in his face, my saliva tinged pink with blood. “They were never his,” I hiss. “And neither was I.”

His hand connects with my cheek, the slap so hard my head snaps to the side. Stars burst behind my eyes, and for a moment, the forest tilts and spins around me. I can’t pass out. Not yet. Every second I keep Igor occupied is another second Fallon and the girls get further away.

Through the ringing in my ears, I hear him snarl something in Russian—too fast for me to catch. He shifts his weight, reaching for something at his belt. A knife, maybe. Or worse, his phone to call for backup.

I slam my knee between his legs with every ounce of strength I can muster. This time, I don’t miss.

Igor doubles over, a strangled sound escaping his throat. I shove him sideways and scramble to my feet, adrenaline masking the pain shooting through my ribs, my face, my shoulders. He won’t stay down long. Men like him, men who make their living with violence, they know how to push through pain.

I have maybe three seconds to decide: run toward the girls and risk leading him straight to them or run in another direction entirely. There’s no real choice. I snatch up his phone, and start sprinting toward the road, away from the creek path where Fallon and the twins disappeared. My fingers fumbling to punch numbers in I know by heart.

I make it perhaps twenty yards before a weight crashes into my back, sending me sprawling face-first into the dirt. Igor is on me again, flipping me over, with a rage I’ve never seen before—not even from Mikhail. This is personal now. I’ve humiliated him. Injured him. And in his world, that can only be answered with blood.

“For that,” he pants, “You’ll pay.” I twist seeing the cracked phone screen and the call connected.

“The red door, check the red door,” I scream, praying his ear is on his phone.

Igor’s hands close around my throat, thumbs pressing into my windpipe. The pressure is immediate and terrifying, my body’s panic response kicking in as my oxygen is cut off. I claw at his arms, his face, anywhere I can reach, only it’s like attacking a brick wall. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

I jam my thumb into Igor’s injured eye, pressing hard and twisting. He screams, his grip loosening just enough for me to suck in a desperate breath when he jerks his face away. My fingers scrounge for any part I can gouge when my pinkie meets his teeth. The scream that leaves me as he breaks it with his teeth, grinding through the flesh is deafening.

His hand clamps around my throat again, harder this time, furious at my continued defiance when I feel him bite completely through it, he spits it back at me. Something has changed in his eyes, a flicker of confusion, perhaps even fear.

“What is the red door?” he demands.

I almost laugh despite the pain, despite the pressure crushing my windpipe. “Go fuck yourself!” The realization must show on my face because Igor’s expression darkens further. “What did you do?” he growls, easing the pressure on my throat just enough to let me speak. “What the fuck did you do?”

I smile at him, feeling blood from my split lip smear across my teeth. “You’re all dead,” I whisper.

His hand tightens again, choking off my words, my breath, my consciousness. The world around us dims, colors fading as oxygen deprivation takes its toll. I don’t fight it now. I’ve done what I needed to do. Fallon and the girls are gone, heading toward Leone, toward safety. My part in this is done.

FOURTEEN

Fallon

My lungs burn with each desperate breath. We’ve been running for what feels like hours, the forest floor a tangle of roots and shrubs determined to trip us up. Mila stumbles again, her small hand clutching mine so tight my fingers are going numb. Anya trails just behind. They’re exhausted. I’m exhausted. We can’t afford to stop. Not until—there. Through the trees. A shape so familiar it makes my heart stutter, and after spending all afternoon searching for the place, I realize I never really thought I would find it. Grandma’s cabin.

I halt so suddenly that Anya crashes into my back. The setting sun throws long fingers of light through the branches. My legs turn to concrete.

“Fallon?” Anya whispers, her voice barely audible over the hammering in my chest.

I swallow hard. “We’re here.”

The cabin appears through the trees like a ghost I forgot still haunted me. I nearly collapse when I move toward it—same rotting steps, same cracked windows, same peeling paint on the door frame that my grandmother used to touch like a prayer before going inside. Years gone, and nothing’s changed. Eventhe crooked mailbox still stands, its red flag permanently raised as if signaling distress to anyone who might pass by. Not that anyone ever did. This place is hidden from any roads, deep in the forest.

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