Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession 1)

He may refuse to talk to me when I call him.

He may be so angry that I left he won’t want me to return.

Now that I’m out here, away from the compound, Alina’s revelations seem even more like the ramblings of an ill, drugged-out mind, and though I can’t dismiss them entirely, I shudder at the thought of confronting Nikolai and asking whether he did, in fact, kill his father.

What innocent man wouldn’t be insulted by that query?

What boyfriend wouldn’t be furious that his girlfriend believed such monstrous lies?

I should’ve stayed. Fuck, I should’ve stayed. Even if it felt risky at the time, I should’ve given Nikolai a fair hearing. The keys prove nothing. Alina could’ve had them all along; she could’ve even stolen them from Pavel. If Nikolai wanted to deprive me of my freedom, there are all kinds of other actions he could’ve taken—like telling the guards not to let me out.

And that’s the thing, I realize with a start. That’s why what seemed so rational when I was packing feels like such an awful error now. It’s because the moment I drove through the gate, I got proof that I could leave, that Nikolai didn’t plan to keep me there with some sinister intentions. I’d been too panicky to realize it at first, but the farther I drove, the deeper that knowledge settled, the consequences of my impulsive actions weighing on me more with every passing mile.

I should’ve turned back hours ago.

In fact, I should’ve done it the moment I cleared the gate.

I cast a frantic glance around me. Trees and cliffs everywhere. I’m deep in the mountains again, the road in front of me so narrow it’s barely two lanes. I can’t do a U-turn here; it would be suicide to try.

Clutching the wheel tighter, I keep driving—and finally, I see it.

A little extra space to the left of where the road curves.

I look in the mirror, then straight ahead and back.

Nothing. No cars. I’m all alone.

Braking hard, I make an illegal U-turn and head back.

* * *

I’m twenty minutes into my return trip and desperately trying to remember if I need to turn right or left at the upcoming intersection when a black pickup truck turns onto the road, coming toward me.

A chill ripples down my spine, the fine hair on the back of my neck rising.

It could be my paranoia working overtime again, but those tinted windows look familiar.

There’s no time to second-guess myself; in another thirty seconds, we’ll be passing next to each other. With a sharp tug on the wheel, I swing the car onto a small dirt road leading up the mountain to my right, and slam on the gas, ignoring the complaining whine from the Corolla’s ancient motor.

If it’s not them, they won’t follow me.

I’ll feel like an idiot, but better that than dead.

My heart thumps violently against my ribcage, each second marked by half a dozen beats as my gaze flits between the rearview mirror and the steep, pothole-filled road ahead. Please don’t let it be them. Please don’t let it—

The pickup truck appears in the mirror, its dark shape gaining on me swiftly.

I push the gas pedal to the floor, my breath coming in jagged gasps as my car bounces over a series of potholes. Adrenaline sloshes in my veins, ratcheting up my pulse until all I can hear is its roar in my ears.

Pop!

My right side mirror explodes, and my terror doubles as I catch sight of a man leaning out the truck’s passenger-side window, gun in hand. Instinctively, I jerk the wheel left, and the next bullet shatters the back window and punches a hole in the windshield, barely a foot from my head.

The third bullet whines past my shoulder, and I taste death. I feel its icy, scaly fingers. It’s everything left undone, unsaid, all the things that won’t come to pass. It’s Nikolai whispering into my ear how much he wants me, loves me, and Slava giggling as he hugs me tight. It’s the bitter knowledge that these men will get away with this, like they did with Mom’s murder, and regret that no one will ever know how I died.

A fourth bullet pierces the seat an inch from my right side, and I jerk on the wheel again, desperate to avoid the inevitable, to live at least a second longer. The pickup is right behind me now, looming over my Corolla like a black mountain, and as I try to swerve out of the next bullet’s path, its bumper rams into mine, hard, making my head whip forward.

Pop!

Fire punches through my upper arm, the sensation so sharp and sudden it doesn’t hurt at first. Instead, I feel something hot and wet slide down my arm as the truck slams into my car again, making it shudder from the massive jolt. The pain hits me then, a nauseating wave of it, and with the desperation of a dying animal, I jerk off my seat belt and push open my door.