Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).
Unbeta'd, unedited.
"Feliks, take Ms. Hale into the next room. Fuck her. Kill her. I do not care. Just make her scream."
An ear-piercing shriek shatters the silence, bouncing off the stone and plaster walls.
Eyes wide with terror, Rosalie twists and flails in a frantic, uncoordinated attempt to free herself from Feliks' hold. Her nails rake down the side of his face, leaving long, red tracks in their wake, as her opposite hand beats on the meaty arm clamped around her chest.
Feliks doesn't move an inch.
That asshole just laughs, hauls her off her feet, and drags her toward the door.
"No!" Muffled by his palm, Rosalie screams again. Blonde hair flies as her head whips back and forth. Bright, shining tears streak down her face. "Let me go! No!"
"Misha, please," I say, hoarse and pleading, as I lean toward him as much as my restraints allow. "Please, don't do this."
My chest heaves as Aronov searches my face.
"Unfortunately, I fear this is necessary," he says, reaching across the space between us to stroke my cheek. "I told you that I do not wish to harm you, but I will not tolerate any more of your lies, and I can only assume that your friend was party to your many deceits. My offer of forgiveness does not extend to her."
"No." I jerk forward, wincing when my shoulder pops. "She wasn't. I swe–"
"Enough." It's a soft yet firm rebuke. All the while, Aronov continues to touch my face, gently tracing my jaw, soothing away the ache from his earlier blows. He stares down at me with what I can only call pity. "Regardless, if we are to move forward from this, I must ensure that you first learn from your mistakes. We will consider this… a lesson."
The man's arrogance is breathtaking.
Out in the hallway, Rosalie wails like a fucking banshee. Feliks rumbles something in return, and there's the sickening sound of flesh repeatedly being struck. The wailing stops, replaced by moans and teary sobs, and then a door slams behind them.
My eyes squeeze shut. When I look at Aronov again, moisture brims along my eyelids, and my voice drops to a desperate whisper. "Please."
Aronov's Adam's apple dips below his collar, and indecision flickers across his aristocratic features. It's fleeting, however, gone as quickly as it appeared. In its place is something older and harder.
Releasing me, Aronov steps away and asks, "Tell me, lyubimaya, who helped you rescue Carlisle Cullen?"
In my periphery, I clock Masen off to the right, where he stands next to Dmitri. Still as cool and distant as ever, he crosses his arms over his chest. The motion pulls his jacket a little wider. A pair of now-familiar matte black Glocks sit tight against his ribs, but as he casually angles toward Oleg, I catch the faint outline of a third tucked into the back of his waistband.
When Masen pivots back around, dark gemstone eyes burn into mine, alive and intense, one-hundred-and-eighty degrees away from the lazy façade. His chin dips in a single, barely-there acknowledgment, and then the fingers resting against his forearm splay in a subtle ready signal I'd recognize in my sleep.
My heart rate automatically settles into a slow, steady rhythm as the room and all its inhabitants come into sharp, unrelieved focus.
It's the same inner stillness and clarity that descends as you count down the breach of an enemy combatant's bolthole. Or when you line up a target in your reticle and curl your finger around the trigger.
"You won't know them," I finally reply, tilting my head back against the cushion in feigned resignation. "They're just some operatives out of Platt's group."
"Names." Aronov's soles rap against the stone as he stalks the length of the room. "You will give me their names, and you will tell me how you communicated with them."
I rattle off a handful of Whitlock's made-up identities, all crafted for this exact scenario. The second anyone executes a search, the alarms will trigger, telling Whitlock everything he needs to know.
Not that he doesn't already.
"And how?" It's a quiet, deceptively light interrogation, but Aronov's fists flex and clench by his sides, turning his knuckles white. "How did you communicate with these… operatives?"
"Phone." I exhale a slow, tired breath, and as I slump, the strap around my ribcage digs into my torso, compressing my lungs enough to make my voice rasp and wheeze. It's an uncomfortable position, but the effect makes for some fucking top-notch theater. "Encrypted app. Remote wiping. You know, the usual."
Aronov pauses to study me. "Where is this phone now?"
"Discarded it," I tell him as I try and fail to reposition. When another small, shaky whimper spills out, a muscle jumps in his cheek. "That morning in Florence, after you… after we were interrupted."
"How else?" Aronov asks, softer, as he continues to roam my face. His gaze fixates on my mouth when I lick my lips.
That's right, asshole, look at me.
See what you want to see.
"One of them came to the salon the day before the party. I convinced the staff to let her in." My eyes flit past Masen to pause on Dmitri and then to the door in the corner. "That's where I gave her the access codes to the compound and the layout."
"Is that so?"
Something dark and menacing lurks beneath the quiet question, and as Aronov angles toward his guard, the room goes as silent as death itself.
When Aronov arches a single brow, Dmitri's complexion instantly pales. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, but no more than a second later, the man's shoulders square beneath the finely tailored fabric of his jacket.
"Ya proshu proshcheniya," Dmitri says as he ducks his head in a careful – careful – deferential apology. "Eto moya vina. My–"
"Khvatit! My eto potom obsudim." Aronov waves him off with an angry flick of his hand. Scrubbing his chin, he lets out a low, aggravated noise before turning to Masen. "Ty kogo-nibud' iz nikh znayesh'?"
Loose and with that signature feline grace of his, Masen slowly approaches, stopping only once he's positioned between Aronov and me. "Not personally, but I've heard of at least one of them." Masen's shoulders rise and fall in a lazy shrug. "Ex-Airborne, if I recall. Back when I was in Yemen, he ran some of the intel ops."
Aronov grunts and resumes his pacing.
"You want me to track them down?" Masen asks. Without looking away from Aronov, he taps his wrist, disguising the motion by pretending to adjust his watch, and flashes me another lightning-fast signal. "They're probably still in the area, waiting for her." Tilting his head, Masen glances at me, and I watch him rapidly assess the shackles looping my wrists and the restraint around my ribs. "They won't be hard to find or take out."
I know precisely what he's telling me and silently mouth, "How long?"
We make eye contact, no more than a second, and he mouths back, "You'll know when. Get his attention."
Aronov lets out another frustrated growl. "Do it. I want every one of those motherfuckers in body bags, and then I want you to take out Esme Platt. I do not care what you have to do. I am sick of dealing with that woman!" As Aronov looks over, his irises darken with barely leashed fury. "Use Jovan. Test him for me. Find out if he is loyal or if I need to execute him after all."
Masen nods like it's any other day.
As I attempt to reposition again, I peek over at Markovsky. Still propped against the far left-hand wall, he watches his brother-in-law like the silent hunter he is. As Aronov continues to seethe, Markovsky's lips mash into a flat line, and I see more than hear him let out a soft tsk.
Yeah, tell me about it, buddy.
When Masen dips his chin, I slump a little more, gasping at the grinding in my wrists and elbows. Fire scorches through my midsection when I try to haul myself back up.
It's not as bad as the first time, but fuck me running, this sucks.
Either way, another round of sweat dots my forehead, dampening my hairline. When I whisper Aronov's name, it comes out in a shallow punch of air.
Aronov jerks toward me, and there's a beat of mute surprise. His eyes narrow, but when I rasp out another faltering breath, his long stride eats up the space between us.
"Shh," he says, taking my face in his palms. Aronov smiles down at me as he gently fingers the hair out of my eyes. "You are doing well, my love. You will have more comfortable accommodations shortly, I promise you this." He kisses my temple, lingering like the tender lover he so desperately wants to be. His thumb caresses my lower lip, ghosting across the laceration from his fist as if in apology. "First, I want you to tell me how you acquired these access codes."
Wide-eyed and searching, I look up at him and swallow. "Feliks. I–"
Right on cue, a gut-wrenching cry echoes off the stone. Something large and wooden crashes onto the floor, loud even through the walls. There's a second of silence, interrupted by a harsh, masculine grunt. And then all I hear is the telltale, rhythmic, repeating thud of furniture banging into the wall and the accompanying sobs that turn my blood to ice.
Everything in me freezes, obliterating every bit of that pre-battle inner stillness. The room comes in and out of focus as my gaze laps the room.
Off to the side, Oleg stares a hole into the floor as he anxiously rubs the back of his neck. Against the left wall, stone-faced Markovsky frowns, and as Rosalie's sobs continue, those silver-gray eyes of his churn, dark and stormy. Even goddamned Dmitri has the decency to fidget.
But Aronov… that motherfucker just looks down at me with that same expression of almost-pity. A lone finger trails across my cheekbone, wiping away wetness I didn't know was there.
Because I can't fucking tell.
I don't know if those cries are real or if my partner in crime is giving the performance of her life.
"Make him stop," I whisper as bile climbs my esophagus. I strain against my bindings, leaning toward the man in front of me. Another wave of white-hot fire licks across my abdomen as my joints crackle and grind. "Please, I'll give you what you want. I'll give you anything you want if you make him stop."
Aronov's eyes gleam, black as night and victorious. "You agree to my terms?"
In my periphery, Masen slowly begins to reposition, but Dmitri's there, too, always watching, exactly what he's supposed to be doing. My stomach sinks as Oleg pivots toward Markovsky, putting Masen directly in his line of sight.
Yes, Masen's fast – incredibly so – but four-on-one odds are not ideal, especially when three are trained and seasoned pros.
And I really, really don't want him to die today.
There's no way I can force myself out of these bindings. But if distraction's the name of the game, fine, I can do that all day long.
When Rosalie screams again, I thrash in my restraints like a mad woman, yelling, begging Aronov to let me go and stop the man in the other room. Before he can react, I prop one foot against the cushioned support behind me for leverage, and then I fucking push, propelling myself toward Aronov with everything I have left.
The cable attached to my wrists goes taut with an audible snap, as does the strap around my ribs. All forward momentum instantly halts. My left wrist and shoulder pop, and then my entire torso screams in blinding agony as the sutures holding my abdominal wall together tear and give way.
I don't know what comes out of my mouth, but for a moment, I'm lost in a sea of misery and razor-sharp pain. The room spins like a carousel as black spots float across my vision. My ears ring, my stomach rolls, and I collapse as hot, silky liquid soaks through my shirt and streams down my thigh to my ankle.
Mother. Fucker.
When I sluggishly lift my head, Aronov's face goes sheet white. For a second, he just stares at me, speechless and gaping in abject horror. His eyes drop to my abdomen and the crimson bloom spreading across the pristine cotton of my borrowed button-up, and then he looks over at Masen and bellows a loud, panicked, "Opusti yeye vniz!"
Masen's whole body stiffens, and as his gaze swings toward me, I swear, that man has the nerve to look annoyed.
I blink, and Aronov's suddenly back in my space.
"Just breathe," Aronov murmurs in my ear, half angry, half horrified, wholly worried. He strokes my face with one hand as the other presses my shirt firmly against my reopened wound. "You willful, difficult woman! Why do you do this to me? I told you that I would move you!" Glaring at me and the entire world, he yells over his shoulder to Masen. "I said get her down right now!"
Throwing me a final irritated scowl, Masen motions to Dmitri, right as the guard tosses him a slim, black remote. With a single press of a button, the cable spins through the overhead pulley, dropping my arms. Masen taps the remote again, and my shackles release with a quiet mechanical snick.
Well, that was easy.
Aronov catches me as I go limp, holding me up as Masen targets the strap around my midsection.
"I've got her," Masen says as he flips the buckles with unsurprising speed and dexterity. "Let me get her over to the bed and see how badly she's ripped that wound open."
"Do it! Davay, davay!" Aronov spits out the order and then a barrage of rapid-fire curses.
Inclining his head in a single affirmative, Masen drags my sore, aching arms off Aronov's shoulders. He picks me up, takes my weight like it's nothing, and calls over to Dmitri, "Mitya, get one of the nurses down here."
Stricken and covered in my blood, Aronov backs away, only to whip around and roar at his guard. "You heard him, you idiot! Zvoni medsestre!"
As Masen carefully sets me down on the mattress, he whispers in my ear, "Jesus Christ. I didn't mean that. Do you always do this shit?"
Still playing limp and delirious, I let out a pained breath and tuck my chin to my chest before whispering back, "It worked, didn't it? Now, give me that fucking sidearm in your waistband, and let's end this."
Masen rolls his eyes. "Fine. As soon as you hear it, you take Oleg."
"Hear what?" I peek up at him as he does a quick check of my wound. I'm bleeding everywhere, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt like a bitch, but he and I both know I'll be fine if we can get out of here.
One corner of his mouth pulls up into a wry smile as he grabs a stack of gauze off the nearby table and mashes it against my skin to stem the blood. "The Cavalry, who else?"
In the center of the room, Aronov paces with nervous agitation. He growls out another impatient, pissed-off command to Dmitri as the other man yanks his phone from his pocket. When I let out a pitiful-sounding moan, just to keep up the charade, he looks at me with panic and whips around to snap something to Markovsky.
That one doesn't move at all.
Markovsky just stands there, leaning against the wall with his head slightly tilted, watching.
Like always.
Shit.
Steady and infuriatingly calm, Masen tears into a package with his teeth and peels off a wide, sticky bandage. As he places it over the gauze, taking his time to smooth it out, he taps his ear once before finally muttering under his breath, "Five… four… three… two…"
We make eye contact right as a deep, reverberating boom! rocks the building.
Another explosion – a high-powered bunker buster from the sound of it – lights off somewhere above us. Two more follow, hot on their heels, sending dust and debris raining down from the ceiling and the ancient walls around us. In the distance, muffled shouts and gunfire answer. One of those face-eating Malinois snarls, and then somewhere in the courtyard, there's the loud, repeating rat-tat-tat of a heavy-round machine gun.
Down here, the lights flicker and dance as chaos reigns. As another blast shakes the walls, this one closer, Dmitri goes into instant bodyguard mode.
Shouting an order to Oleg to set up for defense, Dmitri simultaneously grabs Aronov to drag him toward the door. "Nuzhno ukhodit' otsyuda!"
Shrugging him off, Aronov eyes the ceiling and then looks around the room in confusion before finally landing on me. We stare at each other for no more than a single heartbeat in time, but in that brief span, confusion transforms into understanding, which then morphs into reluctant admiration.
One arrogant brow climbs to his hairline. "You?"
Before I can respond, Dmitri pushes Aronov with more force, urging him forward. "Davayte! Bystreye, bystreye!"
In a single, fluid, lightning-fast move, Masen spins, drawing his weapon on the fly. Halfway around, I pluck the gun tucked into the back of his waistband and jump off the bed to take position beside him.
A pair of suppressed rounds thump the air as Masen targets Dmitri.
His first shot grazes the man's jacket. It pings off the wall behind him in a spray of stone shards and plaster pebbles.
Dmitri grunts as Masen's second shot penetrates his left shoulder. He flinches, and his steps stutter, but he keeps going just like he's trained to do.
With a hard shove, Dmitri forces Aronov to the ground, out of the line of fire. Swinging around a split-second later, he whips out one of his own Lebedev pistols and returns a spray of blanketing fire. One ricochets off the stainless-steel cabinet beside us. Another goes wild, piercing the wooden beam running the length of the ceiling. As a third zings past my ear, I duck and swear.
Masen doesn't even blink. Tracking Dmitri as he continues to herd Aronov toward the door, he fires again.
Dmitri lets out a loud, garbled cry when Masen's round hits him in the gut. He doubles over, clutching his stomach right as the air ruptures again. This one slams into the guard's chest, knocking him back as it rips into his heart.
Almost as if in slow motion, Dmitri raises his weapon. Blood drenches his shirt and jacket as his features slacken and turn distant. A thin rivulet of crimson trickles out of the side of his mouth. His grip falters, and his pistol falls, tumbling end over end. As his weapon clatters against the stone, Dmitri's knees buckle beneath him.
A beat later, Dmitri collapses to the floor, eyes wide, dead on impact.
Masen gives the guard a final, cursory glance as he skirts the edge of the bed. Weapon out in front, he gives me a final nod before he darts to one of the stone columns in the middle, targeting the man against the far left-hand wall.
That ghost's already gone.
I shake my head because of-fucking-course, he is.
I'll let Masen deal with sneaky Markovsky. Meanwhile, ignoring the fiery stab in my abdomen, I hunt that baby-faced marksman, Oleg.
The second Dmitri goes down, Oleg flips over the rustic plank table in the center of the room. As my Glock and rifle skitter across the floor, Oleg grabs Aronov by the back of his shirt. He damned near throws the older man behind the makeshift cover as he dives for the nearby leather chair. "Prignites'!"
Good fucking advice.
The lights flicker again as an explosion hits a couple of floors above us. This one's smaller – grenade or maybe a flashbang – and then another volley of fast-repeating automatic gunfire lights off to the chorus of panicked shouting.
My lips curve because I know the pitch of that weapon anywhere.
McCarty always did like to make an entrance.
I catch a flash of black as Oleg attempts to fire over the top of the chair. His round screams past me and buries itself in the wall. Holding, I throw a quick hand signal to Masen, ordering him to continue tracking Markovsky as I simultaneously drop low.
As I move, there's another sharp tug beneath my bandages. But now that I'm down and moving – not to mention being fucking shot at – adrenaline takes over, relegating pain and soreness to little more than an irritation.
I can hurt tomorrow.
I have more important shit to do.
Silent as a church mouse and oh-so-careful to stay out of Oleg's line of sight, I sidestep a few feet to the right and slowly creep toward the pair of men hunkered down behind the furniture. Stiff Kevlar fabric rustles. Rubber and leather scuff against stone. I shift another foot to the right as I pick up Oleg murmuring instructions, low and fast to Aronov. Aronov starts to argue with him, but when the younger guard interrupts, he finally growls out an angry affirmative.
There's a moment of icy silence, so quiet I could hear a pin drop against the backdrop of McCarty's 240 somewhere above. Adjusting my grip, I mutely count down the seconds.
Before I hit five, Oleg bolts up again, aiming exactly where I'm not, and I fire.
My round – unsuppressed and ear-splitting – fractures the silence. As it sinks into his armor, Oleg recoils with a wheeze of surprise. I hit him twice more, right as my first shot jerks his body around. His armor stops the bullets from penetrating, but there's enough force from the close-range rounds that he stumbles into the wall behind him.
Chest pounding from the bruising impact, Oleg gets off a handful of random shots as he attempts to stand. I'll give Markovsky's pet credit, too. He recovers fast for someone who's just taken three rounds to the vest.
Unfortunately for him, I'm faster.
A lot faster.
And this time, when I fire, I nail him square between the eyes.
Oleg goes down instantly, crumpling to the floor in a pile of lanky limbs and matte black armor. Wet, shiny crimson seeps into the stone beneath his body, and as I sweep the area, I frown at the fan of atomized blood now staining the wall behind him.
"Damn it," I mutter as I continue my slow creep toward the edge of the overturned table.
I really did not want to kill that kid.
Such a fucking shame.
I round the corner of the table and glimpse a swath of snow-white cotton. Still on his hands and knees, Aronov scrambles away – from both me and what he knows is coming. In a surprising display of agility, he scoops up Dmitri's fallen weapon as he dives behind the chair.
He doesn't have a chance to use that pistol, however.
No, as soon as Aronov stands and raises his weapon, the air thumps, and everything stills.
The explosions overhead, the gunfire, the shouting, the bronze-haired man in black on the other side of the room – every bit of it goes absolutely silent.
And for just a moment, time itself ceases to exist.
Frozen in place, I stand there as Aronov lurches and staggers toward me.
Before he can even take a full step, Dmitri's pistol clatters to the ground as his shooting arm drops limp by his side. Stunned, mouth agape, Aronov glances down at his useless arm, letting out a soft grunt of confusion before slowly dragging his gaze back to me. We stare at each other for what feels like a short forever, but then he abruptly pitches to the left and falls across the back of that lone cushioned leather chair. As his legs fold beneath him, Aronov scrambles to hold on and keep himself up.
My eyes slide past Aronov and the dark crimson stain spreading across his back to land on Masen, where he stands on the other side of the room with his Glock still aimed and poised to fire.
Masen starts to ask, "Do yo–"
"Are you fucking kidding me?!"
My head immediately whips left. Despite where we are and the man bleeding out in front of me, my face splits into a grin so wide my cheeks hurt from it.
Armed with Feliks' twin pistols, ponytail swinging, Rosalie saunters across the threshold. Angry, bright blue eyes flit to me and widen. Her model-worthy features relax ever so slightly, mirroring the relief that surges through me. Before I can get out a single word, she stiffens, however, and then turns to Masen, shooting him a pissed-off glare that would send a seasoned battalion running and screaming.
"Seriously, Masen?" Rosalie yells, tipping her chin toward me in accusation. "What the fuck? We talked about this!"
Still tracking Aronov as he pants and stumbles around the side of the chair, Masen shrugs. "Don't look at me." He angles his head in my direction, even as his eyes crinkle with vague amusement. "I think you need to talk to your partner, Hale." He shoots me a pissy scowl that I find oddly endearing. "Someone can't seem to let other people do their fucking job."
"Ugh!" Rosalie lets out an aggravated noise and jabs a pistol at me. "I'm going to kick your ass when we get home." Without warning, she leans back into the hall. "You! You get your ass in here before I shoot you in your goddamned face."
Assuming she's screaming at McCarty, I startle when a pair of sharp, shrewd, silver-gray eyes meet mine a second later.
Masen reacts at the same time, spinning around right as my sidearm whips left, ready to take him out.
"U menya yest' informatsiya!" Before my finger can squeeze the trigger, Markovsky instantly drops to his knees, smacking against the stone tiles. Open-handed, his arms shoot up, his chin points to the ceiling, and he belts out a loud, clear, "Ne strelyay! Ya dam tebe informatsiyu!"
Rosalie rolls her eyes, even as she kicks his heel. "Asshole, we literally just talked about this."
"Information… I have information that you want," Markovsky repeats, this time quieter. His accent's thicker, more rolling than usual, too. It's the only sign of nerves I've ever seen from this man, which says a lot.
Markovsky's chin lowers as his gaze travels the room, pausing on Dmitri, Oleg, and finally on his brother-in-law as Aronov crawls into the chair and collapses. Something moves in the older man's expression, and his throat bobs behind his collar, but then he gives himself a hard shake. He looks at Masen and back at me. "Tell Esme Platt that I will give her everything."
My eyes cut to Masen in a beat of surprise. "What do you mean, everything?"
"Exactly what I said." Markovsky nods, and his throat dips again before he utters a litany of offerings. "Dates. Bank accounts. Companies. Names… I can give you accomplices in FSB and Security Council. Conspirators in Interpol. At ports, weapons manufacturers, military contractors..." He sucks in a shaky breath. "I can give her traitor in her own CIA."
My brows climb, but inside, something resembling exhilaration bubbles through my veins. "How do we know you're telling the truth?"
"I know everything there is to know about Misha's operations." Markovsky laughs, but it's a bitter, bitter sound. "Do you understand what I am saying to you? What I am offering? Tell Platt that I will give her anything she wants."
"And what do you want in exchange?"
"My family." Markovsky's gray eyes pin me. "You will relocate and ensure safety of my wife and children. That is all I ask."
"You know, you'll still be tried," I tell him, softer, as I picture the tiny, curly-haired girl with grass stains on her knees and her father's face. "You'll go to prison, likely for a very long time. There's no way around it."
"It does not matter," Markovsky says before giving me a small, sad smile. "They are more important. Your father would have made same choice."
I look at him for a moment, wondering just how long he's had this ace tucked away in his back pocket, ready to play, just in case.
Knowing Markovsky's history and what he's capable of, I'd say a long, long time.
"Fine." Sighing, I scrub my face and motion to Rosalie. "Tell Whitlock to contact Platt and make the arrangements. In the meantime, give him to Spooky to babysit."
Rosalie snorts. "That's a little cruel, don't you think?"
Shaking my head, I wave her off and slowly walk to the center of the room. Masen follows me, keeping his distance. As we approach, Aronov sluggishly turns his head toward him, and he and Aronov share a minute of silent communication.
"Mudak." Aronov's cheeks abruptly crease. Eyes dancing, he lets out a quiet, gurgling chuckle. Blood bubbles between his lips. "I was such a fool to trust you… Molodets."
"Aro," Masen says, nodding once in quiet acknowledgment before turning away.
As I carefully crouch down, those dancing eyes shift to me, staring up at me once more with pride and blind adoration.
"Rodnaya moya, look at you," Aronov whispers, wistful and wanting. His chest heaves from exertion as he tries to sit up on his elbows. He slumps no more than a second later, and there's no mistaking the sound of liquid slowly filling his lungs. Aronov pretends he doesn't notice it, but I've seen enough chest cavity shots to know he has no more than a handful of minutes… if that. "You are so very beautiful."
Touching his face, I rasp through his short-cut beard, and Aronov's eyes close. A smile plays across his lips as he drags one hand up to cover mine, holding me to him.
He kisses the tips of my fingers in a quiet apology. "I should not have struck you."
I don't reply to that. But then again, he doesn't expect me to.
I peek over at Masen, still turned away and playing the role of both witness and protector. Just looking at him, my heart swells, yet at the same time, I realize that if I wanted to, I could hurt Aronov so much more than I already have.
I could turn the screws. I could torture him with knowledge, slicing him up inside like he's done to so many. I could easily be cruel in his final moments.
But despite Rosalie's teasing, not to mention my own chosen profession, cruelty's never come naturally to me, and I already live with too much darkness to start now.
Yes, I do feel sorry for him.
And as Aronov stares up at me with his version of love – albeit sick and twisted – even as he drowns in his own blood, I'd be lying if I said my chest didn't ache with sadness and sympathy for the complex, lonely creature in front of me.
Call it regret for the great man he could have been.
"I would have loved you… so very much," he murmurs as he slowly caresses the back of my hand. Aronov's lips curve, but then he lets out a tired sigh. "But you could have never loved me in return. I know that, in spite of my earlier… missteps."
"I know." I give him a little smile as I slowly bring my barrel to his chest, right over his heart. "Maybe in another life."
"Then I look forward to meeting you in the next one." Aronov smiles one last time before his hand falls to his lap. "Prosti menya."
Touching two fingers to my lips, I gently press them to his in a final kiss. His eyes close, and as his features slowly relax into something like contentment, I pull the trigger and whisper, "Proshchay."
.
.
.
Notes:
Russian (transliterated):
Lyubimaya: my love/beloved
Ya proshu proshcheniya… Eto moya vina. My–: I apologize. It's my fault. We–
Khvatit! My eto potom obsudim: Enough! We will discuss it later
Ty kogo-nibud' iz nikh znayesh': Do you know any of them?
Opusti yeye vniz: Lower her down!
Davay, davay: Let's go / move!
Zvoni medsestre: Call the nurse!
Nuzhno ukhodit' otsyuda: We have to get out of here!
Davayte! Bystreye, bystreye: Come on! Faster, faster!
Prignites': Get down!
U menya yest' informatsiya… Ne strelyay! Ya dam tebe informatsiyu: I have information… Don't shoot. I will give you information!
Mudak… Molodets: Asshole/jerk/etc… Well done
Rodnaya moya: recall this is an intimate, meaningful term of endearment, usually reserved for those you intend on sharing your life with. Anyagal once described it for me as "blood of my blood, bone of my bone"
Prosti menya: Forgive me
Proshchay: this is another word that doesn't precisely translate into English. It's similar to farewell, but it carries a sense of finality, like a forever goodbye, as in you'll never see each other again. It also has a second meaning, as it's one of the forms for the imperfective verb "to forgive"
Glossary:
Bunker buster: a type of munition specifically designed to penetrate hardened targets, like tanks and military bunkers. They can range from large shells delivered by plane to smaller shoulder-fired rocket launchers, e.g. the US's Mk 153 Shoulder-Launched Multipurpose Assault Weapon
Flashbang: aka stun grenade. These are non-lethal devices that produce a blinding flash of light and a deafening bang. They're often used in close-quarters combat, door breaching, and riot control to stun or distract
240: refers to the M240 machine gun, a family of belt-fed, gas-operated machine guns, chambered for the 7.62x51mm NATO cartridge. For those who have read OPERATION: Break the Dawn, this is a nod to Emmett from that story, aka Bear-man, whose weapon of choice was the M240B :)