“He believed me. Or pretended to. He took my phone. He took the laptop. Said he’d track your car through the cameras. He has friends in the police. Dad, he’ll find you. Leave. Right now.”
I hugged her. She was as light as a bird, and she was trembling.
“We’ll leave together,” I said. “Get up.”
“I can’t. My leg…”
I looked at her leg. Her ankle was swollen, blue—broken or severely sprained.
“It’s nothing. I’ll carry you. I used to carry you up to the fifth floor sleeping as a child. I’ll carry you now.”
I lifted her into my arms. A sharp pain shot through my back, but I just gritted my teeth. We left the apartment. I didn’t bother to close the door. What was the point?
The descent took an eternity. Nadya moaned through her teeth with every step I took. I whispered nonsense to her:
“Hang on, little one. Almost there, almost there.”
Outside, the blizzard had turned into a storm. Zero visibility. I sat Nadya in the front seat of the Niva, reclined the backrest.
“Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
I dove under the Gazelle, pulled out the bag of money. I threw it back in the trunk, got behind the wheel.
“Where are we going now?” Nadya asked. Her teeth were chattering.
“First to the emergency room. A private one, paid, on the other side of town. To avoid the police for now. And then… we’ll figure something out.”
I started the car. And then the headlights caught a figure standing in front of the hood.
Vitalik. He stood five meters from us, legs spread wide. In his hand was a crowbar. Next to him stood two others. Hulking figures in leather jackets. Thugs from the nineties who never went away, just changed into security uniforms.
“Well, hello, old man!” I heard even through the glass and the howling wind. “Going somewhere?”
He was smirking. He knew I would come back. He was waiting. The trashed apartment, the beaten Nadya—it was bait. And I, old fool, swallowed the hook, line, and sinker.
“Dad!” Nadya gasped.
“Lock the doors!” I commanded, clicking the central lock button. “And hold on tight!”
I put it in first gear, pressed the gas and the brake at the same time, revving the engine. The Niva roared like a wounded beast. Vitalik stopped smiling. He raised the crowbar.
“Get out, you scum!” he yelled. “Get out the easy way! Give me the money!”
“There won’t be an easy way, Vitaly,” I whispered. “There will be justice.”
I abruptly dropped the clutch. The Niva lurched forward. Not like a sports car, but like a heavy cast-iron iron. My bumper was heavy-duty, reinforced with a channel bar—another habit of a Soviet engineer.
Vitalik didn’t expect it. He thought I would be scared. An old man, an intellectual, a pensioner. What could I do? But he forgot that I had worked for forty years in a factory that stamped parts for serious machinery. And that I had nothing to lose but my daughter.
He jumped back at the last moment, slipping on the ice. The crowbar clanged against the hood, leaving a dent but not breaking the glass. One of the hulks tried to jump on the running board, but I swerved sharply to the left, and he flew into a snowdrift. A crash. We hit a dumpster that was blocking the exit. Sparks, the screech of plastic.
“Hold on!” I shouted.
We flew out of the courtyard onto the avenue. Behind us, I saw the headlights of a black SUV light up. A chase. Now it wasn’t just a drive. It was war. I knew this district better than he did. I helped build this district. I knew every through-yard, every archway…
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