3. Maksim

3

MAKSIM

I do not enjoy killing the innocent.

I am not a sadist. I do not think of myself as cruel. I don't kick dogs, I don't leave babies to cry, I don't even turn off my porch light on Halloween. I buy full-size candy bars to leave in a bowl even when I know they'll be grabbed by the same two or three kids.

I am not inherently a bad man. I am a man who does bad things when times call for it. Times like tonight.

The Albanian girl sits with her hands tucked beneath her in the passenger seat of my car. I know that she's Albanian because before we left the warehouse, I showed her a map so she could point to her home country, far, far away from here. I pity her, I really do. I don't know how she wound up here or why, but it's a long way to travel just to die in the desert.

We're thirty miles away from the nearest sign of civilization, but I keep going a few more miles. There's a hilly spot I have in mind that reminds me of what the Mexican border looks like, at least in the dark, and I'm guessing she crossed from Mexico to get here. She was in a truck for a day, at least, so she must've been on the far end of the border.

When I see the familiar turn, I take it and drive the two miles in until we're close to the hill. Then I put the car in park. The girl doesn't look at me, but her breaths are fast and shallow. She's terrified. She has been since the moment I saw her, but I think she can guess what's about to happen. Still, she doesn't cry or beg. I haven't heard her speak a peep of Albanian yet.

"Relax," I coo, placing my hand on her shoulder. She jumps, her head whipping toward me, her eyes wide.

I smile and hold up my free hand while massaging her shoulder with the other. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

I'm a bastard, I know.

Pulling my hand away, I shut off my car and climb out of the vehicle, letting my smile fall as I take a long breath.

I walk around and carefully open the passenger door, extending my hand for the girl to take. None of my movements are hurried or rough. Everything about this must be suspicious, but I let none of my intentions show in my actions.

You could see it as cruel, but I don't want her to know what hit her. I want her to die with hope, not fear. Not looking down a barrel, but at salvation that only exists in her head.

It's either cruel or merciful. I'm really not sure which.

She lets the suspicion show in her furrowed brow as her eyes dart over my face before carefully, she takes my hand to let me help her out of the car. I pull out my phone and bring up Google translator so I can type a message in her language.

Just over that hill is the Mexican border. There's a man on the other side waiting to take you home.

I scan the translated text then turn my phone around so she can see. Her eyes eagerly dance between me and the screen. Several seconds go by without her responding, like she either doesn't understand or doesn't know how to process it.

I'm leaning toward thinking it's the former when her body flings into mine, her arms wrapping around my midsection.

"Faleminderit," she cries, and although I don't speak the language, I know it means thank you . She sobs against my chest, squeezing me tightly while guilt knocks on my conscience.

Okay, now I regret the merciful tactic. I should've just killed her. This feels more cruel than anything.

A sharp pain stabs my side, making my arms wrapped around the girl tense and my thoughts vanish.

I look down at the blade in her hand, dripping with blood, and before I have a chance to respond, she thrusts it into my side a second time.

My mouth opens, but sound doesn't come out because she pulls it out and does it again, then a fourth time, her quick movements reminding me of Nikita, and finally it occurs to me that I should let her the fuck go to get the little devil off me.

"Fuck," I yell, shoving her backward. She falls, but so do I. One knee hits the ground while I touch the five fucking stab wounds seeping blood. The blade is short—Nikita enjoys slow deaths—so the cuts aren't that deep, but bleeding out is a possibility.

Fucking cunt .

I don't get out my gun. Not yet. I have dealt with so many people, no number comes to mind, so I fully predict that this bitch will try to run away.

Imagine my surprise when she comes at me. Again .

"Stop!" I yell, catching her wrist when she goes to stab my neck. The knife drops as I squeeze, but I let her go when she kicks relentlessly until I'm on the ground, shielding my face with my hands. " Jesus Christ ." I go for my gun, but she screams like a fucking gladiator and kicks me in my face, bloodying my nose.

I grab her ankle when she goes to do it a second time and viciously yank so she falls flat on her back on the hard desert earth.

"Stop," I repeat, climbing on top of her and pinning her wrists above her head while capturing her legs between mine. "No more."

She spits in my face, making me whip my head to the side while her saliva trickles down my chin. "Fuck you, you fucking American pig."

A growl barrels up my chest as I grip her throat and squeeze with fury. It's dark out, but in the moonlight, I watch her face turn red, watch her struggle for breath.

It could've been easier than this. Different. Less pain. Less fighting. But maybe she wanted it this way. A warrior's death.

It's how I'd want to go out.

A sick sort of respect passes through me as I'm choking the life out of this woman. This woman who speaks English, who heard my conversation with Roman, who knew I was taking her out here to kill her. Who had the spine to take the knife and the fucking balls to use it on me.

What a goddamn woman.

Something stabs my chest, not a knife this time, and I look down to see my gun in the girl's hand.

I laugh. "You have to cock it, baby."

She struggles for breath, clawing at me with one hand while holding the gun with the other. I debate securing her hands, but I don't. She's almost out.

Or at least I thought so.

My gun crashes against my head—another way you can use it, I guess—and I roll off the girl, grunting with pain. I press my hand to my temple while my side pulses with sharp aches.

The girl's gasping fills my ears, and a second later, my gun cocks.

I glare at her as her trembling hands point my gun at me. I don't doubt for a second that she could pull that trigger. I've doubted too many fucking times now, I won't do it again.

But I can see the safety on.

She doesn't know it, but she's fucked. If I don't get on the road soon, I'll be fucked too.

My phone fell on the ground in the struggle, and she seeks it out now. Who exactly is she planning on calling?

I point beside my car's tire. "My phone's right there."

Her eyes train on me. "Get it."

"Why?"

"Because if you don't, I'll kill you."

I huff. "What were you trying to do before?"

"What were you trying to do before?" The accusation is clear in her eyes even if it wasn't in her voice. "We're not at the border. There isn't some man on the other side of that hill waiting to take me home."

"Yeah, you got me there, princess."

"Do I look like a princess?" she yells, screams , nearly manically as the gun shakes. She's been through hell. All nine circles.

"You need me," I say, my tone more serious. "You have no license, no passport, no money. You know no one. You can't go to the police because they'll bring you straight to the Bratva, so where exactly are you going to go? Do you know what state you're in? Do you even know how to drive a car?"

"The phone," is all she says, holding out her hand. I feel like the roles have reversed. I could take that gun right out of her hand and put a bullet in her head, but her stone-cold face is just so … I don't know. Hot.

I need to see where she's going with this.

I pick up my phone, unlock it, then hold it out. When she goes to take it, I tug it back. "First, tell me who you're going to call."

"Give me the phone."

"Not yet."

Her lips thin, then, after a moment, they crack with a tremble. "My mother," she says, her voice breaking. "I just want to tell her I'm okay. I promised to call…"

Ah .

She wants to call Mommy… Not quite a survivalist move, but I do feel my chest tighten with pity.

"I don't want to kill you if I don't have to," she says like she's scared. It's another ‘give me the phone or else' threat, but she manages to make it sound sweet.

She's holding the gun, but I doubt she has much faith in her ability to survive. I was telling the truth, and she knows it. She needs me.

I'm not planning on actually letting her make a call. There would be no real consequences for it because what the hell could her Albanian mother possibly do even if she told her she'd been kidnapped? But still. It seems like a bad idea.

The girl, a moment ago sweet and patient-seeming, snatches the phone from my grasp while I'm still considering how far I'm willing to go to humor her, and she quickly backs up several steps, no sign of slowing down.

"That's far enough," I snap.

The sad, scared little girl she showed me disappears as she crouches, chucking my phone to the ground.

What the fuck?

She rears the gun over her shoulder, and all at once, I get what she's about to do.

"Don't!"

I've hobbled two steps toward her, my hand holding my side, before she slams the butt of the gun down to shatter the phone's screen.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I bark, stopping when she stands while aiming the gun at me. I would kill her now if I genuinely didn't want to know.

Her shoulders square, her hands steadier than before. She really does think she's in control. "Now you need me too."

What?

The question must be written in my expression because she goes on. "We drove a long time to get here. How confident are you that you'll make it to a hospital before passing out?"

"Very."

She tilts her head to the side. "Then you're a fool."

I laugh, but the pain at my side is at the forefront of my mind. I've had many, many injuries, and she's right. I had every intention of calling someone for help. I can't drive like this. Not the whole way.

I need her. Right now, it looks like I need her more than she needs me.

Or not .

"I can get to a phone in thirty miles. I could kill you in less than ten seconds. The punctures aren't that deep; I have time."

"How can you kill me if I have the gun?" she asks, her voice full of authority.

I'm quiet for several seconds while I stare her down. "You're right. You'd better go ahead and kill me first while you have the chance." I take a step toward her, only for her to take a step back.

"Stop."

I continue creeping her way.

"Stop or I'll shoot!" she yells, growing panicky. She either agrees that she needs me, or she's lost the nerve to end a life.

I don't respond, nor do I slow my pace. I want to see if she'll do it, if she'll pull the trigger.

Her face pinches with anger as she points the gun just to the right of my head and clicks, trying to fire off a warning shot. Her eyes widen as soon as the click sounds, and she backpedals, horrified that her metal friend failed her.

"No!" she screams when I chase her down, securing her in my arms and squeezing until she stops thrashing. The gun falls on the dirt, adding to the dust cloud she's creating.

" Enough ," I growl in her ear. "Stop fighting."

"Please," she cries, thick tears streaming down her rosy cheeks. " Te lutem mos me vrit ."

" Ya ne govoryu albanskiy ." I don't speak Albanian . I say it in my native tongue just to be a smartass.

"Please don't kill me."

My hold on her slackens as she crumbles in my arms, whispering things in her language I don't think are intended for me anyway. Before I realize what I'm doing, my hand rubs over her back to soothe her.

I have many more reasons to kill her now than I did when I parked my car. My side is bloody, my nose is bloody, my head is bruised. My ego hurts most of all.

But I don't think I'll kill her. Not now that she's useful.

It was probably a bad idea to begin with, trying to get out of Nikita's cruel game. If I don't allow him to punish me now, he'll find something worse.

"I'm assuming you do, in fact, know how to drive?"

"Yes," she replies meekly.

I pull away from her and rip my shirt over my head, then I inspect my wounds for a moment before pressing the cloth to the holes seeping blood.

"Do you know how to use a GPS?"

She nods, hope brewing in her irises, a pretty golden brown I'm just noticing.

"Good."

She just stares at me, perplexed, waiting for me to go on. I don't blame her. There are so many unknowns for her, the biggest one being if she's going to keep breathing for long. Her head must be ready to explode.

I can't answer her questions. I have too many of my own.

Blowing out a breath, I hold out my hand as a sort of truce that I hope she understands. A sort of, let's not kill each other for now, agreement.

She hesitantly takes my hand and allows me to shake once before I let go. "I'm Maksim," I say, nodding to signal it's her turn.

She crosses her arms over her chest as if the desert heat has any kind of chill in the summertime. Finally, she speaks.

"Elira."