“Excellent place,” I said, looking him in the eye. “We’ll take it!”
Vitalik smirked. He had decided that the old man had finally lost his mind. But it was at that moment, standing under the humming wires, that I decided: I would fight. Not for the money. For Nadya. I had to pull her out of this pit. Even if I had to lie in it myself.
I started playing the role of a submissive idiot. I nodded, smiled, signed some papers he pushed in front of me. I read them carefully—they were preliminary agreements, with no legal force without a notary. I was lulling him into a false sense of security.
And Nadya… Nadya started her own game, which I only found out about today when I opened the black bag.
I shook my head, chasing away the memories. The Niva was confidently moving along the snowy highway. A sign appeared ahead: “Bila Tserkva, 40 kilometers.” Aunt Valya’s village was still about a hundred and fifty kilometers away.
I looked in the rearview mirror again. Was I imagining it, or was a black SUV really tailing me? The headlights were blinding, hitting my eyes with high beams. I eased off the gas. The SUV also slowed down. I accelerated. It did too. A coincidence? Or had Vitalik already discovered the loss?
My heart was pierced by a sharp needle. He has connections everywhere. He has a “smart home.” He could have seen on the cameras what Nadya was doing. He could have come back early. And what if he… What if he did something to Nadya?
My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white. No. I had to think coldly. As they taught us at the factory. Analyze the facts.
Fact one: Nadya wrote that she had filed for divorce and that he wouldn’t dare go to the village.
Fact two: I have the money.
Fact three: I’m in an old, but reliable car.
The SUV behind me flashed its headlights and began to overtake. A huge Land Cruiser sped past, drenching me in slushy snow, and disappeared ahead. I exhaled. Paranoia. I needed to calm down. I needed to get there.
A phone vibrated in my pocket. I flinched. I took out an old push-button Samsung. I didn’t like smartphones—my fingers didn’t obey the sensor. The screen showed my daughter’s name. I pressed the answer button.
“Hello, Nadya?”
Silence. Only heavy breathing.
“Hello, Nadenka, can you hear me?”
“Dad…” The voice was strange, gurgling. “Dad, he knows. He…”
The connection was lost. Short beeps, like the pulse of a dying person, came from the receiver.
I slammed on the brakes. The Niva skidded, spun on the slippery road, and I miraculously avoided flying into a ditch, stopping across the shoulder.
He knows. So, the game isn’t over. It’s just beginning. And now the stakes are not money. Now the stake is a life.
I turned the car around. Bila Tserkva could wait. Aunt Valya could wait. I couldn’t leave her there with him. I was driving back to hell, for my daughter.
Making a U-turn on a highway during a blizzard is always a game of Russian roulette. Oncoming headlights emerge from the white haze suddenly, like the eyes of deep-sea monsters. I spun the wheel. The Niva obediently, though with a strained whine from the transfer case, jumped over the snowy median barrier. I was jolted. In the trunk, the toolbox hit the side with a dull thud, and next to it, the black bag rustled softly. The bag worth a life.
I floored the gas, squeezing every last drop of power from the old engine. The speedometer needle trembled at 110. For a Niva in winter, that’s almost the speed of sound. The car shook. The steering wheel vibrated, sending tremors into my hands, my shoulders, my very heart. A single thought pounded in my head: “I won’t make it.” Nadya’s gurgling, terrifying voice on the phone echoed in my ears. What had he done? Hit her? Locked her up? Or…
As I raced this car through the snowstorm, I tried calling back. The subscriber is temporarily unavailable. Of course. He took her phone or smashed it.
40 kilometers to the city. 40 kilometers of icy hell.
I turned on the radio to drown out the noise in my head. Through the static, a news announcer’s voice broke through:
“Heavy snowfalls in the capital region. An orange level of danger has been declared. Traffic jams on the exits are reaching nine points.”
Nine points. The city is at a standstill. That means I’ll have to push through on the shoulders, through courtyards, on sidewalks. I don’t care.
As I flew back into the beast’s maw, memory served up another episode. Last fall, Vitalik came home drunk. Not just tipsy, but in that dark, aggressive state where a person looks for a reason to fight. Nadya was in the kitchen, checking her nephew’s homework (her sister had asked her to babysit). Vitalik burst in, knocked over a chair.
“You!” he pointed a finger at Nadya. “Where are my cufflinks? The gold ones!”
“Vitaly, I didn’t take them,” she said quietly, shielding the child with her body.
“You’re lying! You sold them! Or did your old man steal them?..”
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