“I always knew you’d be the hardest one to break,” the agent said. “Too bad our time is up. I would have enjoyed breaking you—”
The rest of his words were drowned out as a wailing siren broke out. The lights in the hallway flared on an off in time with the siren.
The agent swore in fluent English, never taking his eyes off Anton. He raised his voice so it could be heard over the wail of the siren. “Unfortunately, I have circumstances to deal with. I have no more time for breaking American dogs. Rest in hell, little Sniper.”
Anton never took his eyes off the agent. In his mind, he clung to the memory of the water fight with his family.
The KGB agent pulled the trigger.
The gun clicked empty.
Time froze. The only things that existed were Anton, the KGB agent, and the empty gun that hung between them.
Anton knew an opening when he saw one. He tensed, about to spring. The agent pre-empted him with the vicious blow to the head. Anton staggered under the attack, dimly aware of the cell door slamming shut.
“I’ll be back for you, little Sniper.”
He barely heard the words over the wail of the siren. The prison cell lurched around him. Anton sagged against the wall, trying to get his bearings. The fucking siren made his head feel like it was going to implode. Or maybe it was just the aftershock of the pistol-whip.
The siren abruptly shut off. Anton’s ears rang. But it was more than that. Over the ringing in his ears were strange sounds. He struggled to make it out. It sounded like screaming. Lots of it. And gunfire.
He closed his eyes, listening. Yes, there was definitely shouting. And gunfire. Lots of it. It was coming from outside the jail. Something was going on.
His eyes fell on the body of Tate. His gaze panned wide, also taking in the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Craig.
He was stuck in a cell, surrounded by the bodies of three dead friends.
The chaos outside the jail faded to a distant buzz. All Anton could hear was the pounding of his heart and the rasping of his breath. Emotion bunched in his throat, demanding release.
He fell forward, forehead resting on Tate’s bare, bloody shoulder. A sob broke from his throat. His chest heaved as he cried.
The entire Craig family was gone, wiped from the earth by the Russian scum. His mind kept looping on the moment when Tate gave up the address to the Cecchino farm. There had been nothing but blind desperation in his friend’s eyes.
Anton cried harder. He didn’t blame Tate. Not for a second. If that had been Lena and Leo in the hands of the Russian, Anton would have sung like a bird.
Little good it had done. Mr. and Mrs. Craig were dead.
The memory of Mrs. Craig’s pumpkin bread flooded his mouth. Even though his mouth was full of blood, Anton could taste it clearly. His sobs increased.
As Anton knelt on the cold, unyielding concrete of the cell, he felt a part of himself shrivel up and die on the floor with the Craig family.
He sensed it was the most precious part of himself that died. It was the little kid that had snuck up on Lena and sprayed her in the back with the hose. It was the boy who had pounded on the bedroom door during the sleepover, demanding to be a part of everything the older boys were doing. It was the teenage varsity football player who chased after pretty girls and snuck out to drink beer with his friends in the orchard after games.
Gone. All gone. He was too weak to hold onto them. It was like those pieces of Anton had been stolen and now belonged to someone else. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would live, but he knew he would never be the same.
For the first time since being captured and tortured, Anton wanted to die.
It was a true and singular desire. He wanted to join the Craigs and become nothing more than a memory. It had to be better than feeling like a stranger in his own body.
Sobs continued to wrack his body. He cried for the Craigs, for his father, and his lost friends. He cried for his ravaged country. Hell, he even cried for his mom.
Sometime later, amidst the screams and gunshots that continued to escalate outside of the jail cell, Anton passed out on the floor beside the bloody, beaten bodies of his friends.
12
Doctor
The sound of keys rattling in the cell door disturbed his slumber.
The Anton Cecchino who awoke was different from the Anton Cecchino who had passed out beside the bodies of his friends. As he bolted upright, he distantly realized he could no longer feel the grief that had gripped him earlier. It was gone, ground to dust and obliterated.
Even though his body screamed in protest, Anton rolled into a crouch, ready to spring at the first fucker who walked through the door.
He was ready to fight. To kill. To exact vengeance for all that had been done.
A face peered in at him through the bars in the door. It was a big man with rumpled hair that was more white than brown. He didn’t wear a Soviet uniform. A dirty white lab coat hung from thick shoulders.
He stared at Anton, his eyes wide. “You are Sniper?” The English was thickly accented.
Anton just stared at him, fists bunching. He didn’t know who this fucker was, but it was clear he was a Russian. Therefore, he had to die.
“I doctor,” the man said. “I need . . . sanctuary. I . . . make nezhit vaccine.”
The words stabbed into Anton’s brain, attempting to penetrate the haze that demanded blood and vengeance.
“I help you escape. You give me
