Page 39 of Ruinous Need

VIKTOR

SEVEN HOURS AGO…

Semyon followed through on his promise to make my torture worse.

The digging is around the clock now. With one break for dinner. The three-hour break for sleep is held at different times every day.

No routine. Only back-breaking, infuriatingly pointless labor and guards who refuse to say a single word to me. Even if I swear at them, spit at them, or try to start a fight.

Like they’ve been told not to interact with me at all.

Of course, my body shuts down from exhaustion every three days.

Sometimes I wake up in a daze, still holding the snow shovel.

If I fall asleep at the wrong time and they find me, I wake up within a few hours to the guards firing bullets in the air to wake me up.

I’m permanently exhausted, permanently sore, and permanently frozen.

This morning, though, I wake up feeling well-rested.

Another break in my routine. I think they’ve actually let me sleep through the night. My muscles feel stronger, my brain clicks into action, and the fog lifts from my thoughts.

The last break in routine was a bad sign, signaling the visit from Semyon. I think this might be an omen of something even worse.

Sure enough, they wait until the sun comes up and drag me out of my cell into the snow just outside the cabin.

The lazy bastards can’t even be bothered to take me far away before they execute me. Too much effort to walk through the snow.

They’re probably already dreaming of heading back inside to play a game of bura and drink more vodka. They’ve been doing that a lot lately, their hollering and laughing loud enough to pull me out of my allotted three-hour sleeping time, when I should be dead to the world.

I kneel on the cold ground. They undo my cuffs and point a gun at the back of my head.

I shut my eyes and will my brain to relax. The air is so cold it burns when I inhale, but I’ve learned to get used to it. I open my eyes and watch the cloud of my breath puff through the air.

Still breathing. That means there’s still a chance.

My muscles hurt like hell from the physical labour at first, but after almost a month, my body has adjusted to the suffering. And compared to digging ditches, kneeling in the snow with a gun to my head feels like a tropical vacation.

The guard shoves me forward with a kick, looking for some ultimate humiliation. His buddies look on with malice. “Final words, Viktor?”

Days of torture have increased my pain tolerance and endurance. Some people would wear down in this situation. Not me.

I’ve got something to live for.

Because I don’t believe Semyon.

A photo of Lisette in a wedding dress proves nothing.

If it’s real — if she truly wants to marry him — I’ll let her go. But I need to ask her in person.

The only thing standing in my way is these guards. And I’m pretty sure I can deal with them.

I flex my thigh muscles against the ground and shift from side to side as though I’m preparing to speak. The guards haven’t noticed anything different, but I think I’m going to be a danger to them, even in my half-starved state. I clench my arms. Only one way to find out.

I jump to my feet and shove the barrel of the gun to the side at the same time. The guard holding it fires, but he’s too slow.

The gun is not pointed towards me anymore. It’s pointed towards his friend. He cries out, falling to the ground with a bullet lodged in his shoulder.

I wrench the gun back into my hands and turn it around to shoot the first guard before I have time to think about it.

Now there’s just me and the one guard. We eye each other across the icy ground.

With the same rifles, we’re an even match. It’s a matter of who fires first and most accurately.

I’ve just lined up the shot for his head, and I’m squeezing the trigger when he raises his hands and sets the rifle down slowly.

“You’ll need help to get back to New York before the wedding,” he says, keeping his voice even. “Would you spare my life in exchange?”

Smart man. I fix him with a stare. “Deal.”

Then, I walk to his friend with the shoulder injury and shoot him in the head.