Page 64 of Sin Wager
"You're alive," I tell her.
She nods without speaking, shock stealing her voice. I wish there were a way for me to reassure her, but I can't. There's not really a way for me to put any hope into certain terms for her. We're fucked, and I have to stop and think about how to regroup.
Twenty minutes later, I park outside the Kosmos Motor Inn. It promises anonymity at hourly rates. The neon sign flickers between Russian and English, announcing in bright pink letters that they have a vacancy.
Inside, a desk clerk with prison tattoos barely glances up as I slide cash across the stained Formica countertop. He hands me a key without asking for identification, understanding that some guests prefer invisibility, and tonight, I'm grateful these sorts of places still exist.
When I return to get Vera from the car, she's crying, still terrified. I lead her to room 247 and she sits on the bed and finally speaks. "They came to kill me."
"They came to kill us both."
"The man you shot—his eyes were already empty before you pulled the trigger." She shakes her head and her jaw drops. I feel like I have a knife in my chest. Watching her have the blinders removed is more painful than being shot.
"Milaya…" I walk to her and sit down next to her, but her body is rigid when I try to hold her.
"What happens next?" she asks roughly. Her head drops. Even she is smart enough to know this isn't over.
"Next, we plan. The trap worked—we drew them out, eliminated three of her soldiers. But the war isn't finished." My eyes drift toward the window, then to the deadbolt and chain on the door. It would never stop them if they knew where we were, but I'm positive I wasn't followed.
"I'm scared," she whispers, and I have no doubt she is. Fear is no longer part of my vocabulary. Or at least it wasn't until I had something to fear. Losing Vera now would be the ultimate defeat for me, and I need rest to make sure I'm at the top of my game tomorrow so that doesn't happen.
"Get some sleep," I tell her. "Tomorrow, we hunt the hunters."
But sleep will not come easily tonight. My mind replays the firefight, analyzing angles and ammunition, counting survivors and planning retribution. The Radich crew drew first blood when they turned Vera into their unwilling pawn. Tonight, I drew second blood in the parking deck.
Third blood will end this war permanently.
Vera curls up on the bed fully clothed, exhaustion finally claiming her despite the day's violence. I sit in the room's only chair and watch her breathe, a steady rhythm that confirms we both survived when survival seemed impossible.
The blood on her wrist has dried to brown flakes. Tomorrow, I will help her wash it away, but the memory will remain.Tonight changed her from innocent victim to willing participant in this brutal game.
25
VERA
The bathroom mirror reflects a stranger's face back at me, hollow cheeks and dark circles that map the geography of sleep riddled by fear. My hands shake as I turn the faucet handles, hot water rushing over fingers still stained with dried blood. The soap burns against my scraped knuckles, pink foam swirling down the drain in lazy spirals.
I scrub until my skin turns raw, until the metallic scent fades beneath industrial soap and cheap shampoo. The water runs clear now, but memory holds its stains deeper than flesh. I can still see the gunman's face, the way his eyes went vacant between one breath and the next.
My reflection wavers through steam rising from the sink and fogging the glass. The woman looking back at me lived through a firefight last night, watched men die in muzzle flash and gun smoke. But I'm alive, at least, and my secret is burning a hole in my chest.
My stomach clenches without warning. I drop to my knees beside the toilet and retch, heaving up bile and more tears until my throat burns. Morning sickness comes whether I want itor not, whether I have eaten or not, whether death stalks us through Moscow's streets or not.
The baby doesn't care about Radich gunmen or Vetrov politics. It grows regardless, demanding acknowledgment through nausea and exhaustion and breasts that ache when I move too quickly.
I flush and lean against the bathroom wall, letting cool tile press against my forehead. Through the thin door, I hear Misha moving around the room, his footsteps crossing from window to door and back again. Always checking, always watching for threats that multiply in the dark.
When I finally stand, my legs feel steadier. The mirror shows me the same hollow-cheeked woman, but her eyes hold new resolve. I can't keep hiding from the truth. Misha deserves to know, and I deserve to stop carrying this alone. Besides, what would I have done if he were killed? He has to understand the toll this is taking on me, the increased fear I'm living under now.
The bathroom door opens onto a room thick with cigarette smoke. Misha stands at the window with his back to me, shoulders rigid beneath yesterday's shirt. His pistol rests on the windowsill beside an ashtray full of butts, close enough to grab in one smooth motion if he senses danger.
A knife sits on the nightstand, its blade catching the light. Even in sleep, he would be ready to kill.
"Anything out there?" I ask, tiptoeing out toward the bed.
"Two delivery trucks, one taxi, nobody who doesn't belong." He turns from the window, eyes scanning me from head to toe. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," I tell him, but the dam inside me is about to burst open.
