Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
My fingers nearly crush the phone. “What about Pasha?”
“We don’t know yet. There were several explosions, and—”
“I’m on my way.”
“Peter, wait—”
I hang up and rush out the door.
* * *
Please, please, please, let him be alive. Please let him be alive. Please, I’ll do anything, just let him be alive.
I’ve never been religious, but as the military helicopter makes its way through the mountains, I find myself praying, pleading and bargaining with whatever is up there for one small miracle, one small mercy. A child’s life is meaningless in the big scheme of things, but it means everything to me.
My son is my life, my reason for existing.
The roar of the helicopter blades is deafening, but it’s nothing compared to the clamor inside my head. I can’t breathe, can’t think through the rage and fear choking me from within. I don’t know how Tamila died, but I’ve seen enough corpses to picture her body in my mind, to imagine with stark precision how her beautiful eyes appear blank and unseeing, her mouth slack and crusted with blood. And Pasha—
No. I can’t think about it now. Not until I know for sure.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Daryevo is nowhere near the known hotspots in Dagestan. It’s a small, peaceful settlement with no ties to any insurgent groups. They were supposed to be safe there, far away from my violent world.
Please let him be alive. Please let him be alive.
The ride seems to take forever, but finally, we break through the cloud cover, and I see the village. My throat closes up, cutting off my breath.
Smoke is rising from several buildings in the center, and armed soldiers are milling around.
I jump out of the helicopter the second it touches the ground.
“Peter, wait. You need clearance,” the pilot shouts, but I’m already running, shoving people aside. A young soldier tries to block my path, but I rip his M16 out of his hands and point it at him.
“Take me to the bodies. Now.”
I don’t know if it’s the weapon or the lethal edge in my voice, but the soldier obeys, hurrying toward a shed on the far end of the street. I follow him, the adrenaline like toxic sludge in my veins.
Please let him be alive. Please let him be alive.
I see the bodies behind the shed, some neatly laid out, others piled together on snow-speckled grass. There’s nobody around them; the soldiers must be keeping the villagers away for now. I recognize some of the dead right away—the village elder Tamila was engaged to, the baker’s wife, the man I once bought goat milk from—but others I can’t identify, both because of the extent of their wounds and because I haven’t spent much time in the village.
I’ve barely spent any time here, and now my wife is dead.
Steeling myself, I kneel next to a slender female body, lay the M16 on the grass, and move her headscarf off her face. A chunk of her head has been blown off by a bullet, but I can make out enough of her features to know it’s not Tamila.
I move on to the next woman’s body, this one with several bullet wounds through her chest. It’s Tamila’s aunt, a shy woman in her fifties who’d spoken less than five words to me in the last three years. To her and the rest of Tamila’s family, I’ve always been a foreigner, a frightening stranger from a different world. They didn’t understand Tamila’s decision to marry me, condemned it even, but Tamila didn’t care.
She’d always been independent like that.
Another female body draws my attention. The woman is lying on her side, but the gentle curve of her shoulder is achingly familiar. My hand shakes as I turn her over, and white-hot pain pierces me as I see her face.
Tamila’s mouth is just as slack as I imagined, but her eyes aren’t vacant. They’re closed, her long eyelashes singed and her eyelids glued together with blood. More blood covers her chest and arms, turning her gray dress nearly black.
My wife, the beautiful young woman who had the courage to choose her own fate, is dead. She died without ever leaving her village, without seeing Moscow like she dreamed. Her life was snuffed out before she had a chance to live, and it’s all my fault. I should’ve been here, should’ve protected her and Pasha. Hell, I should’ve known about this fucking operation; nobody should’ve been here without informing my team.
Rage rises inside me, mixing with agonizing grief and guilt, but I shove it aside and force myself to keep looking. There are only adult bodies laid out in the rows, but there’s still that pile.
Please let him be alive. I’ll do anything as long as he’s alive.
My legs feel like burned matches as I approach the pile. There are detached limbs there, and bodies damaged beyond recognition. These must’ve been the victims of the explosions. I move each body part aside, sorting through them. The smell of stale blood and charred flesh is thick in the air. A normal man would’ve thrown up by now, but I’ve never been normal.