Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
One by one they fall quiet, only sniffles and heavy breathing filling the air. Minutes pass before I try again and ask, “What is happening?”
“They say my father has been overthrown and there’s a new pakhan.” Ms. Fedorova’s tone is void of the usual hatred and filled with ungodly terror.
Oh no!
When the truck shakes, I bite my bottom lip to keep from making a sound as it sends a fresh wave of pain through my leg.
A new pakhan taking over can only mean one thing. Yegor Fedorov’s family, men, and associates will all be rounded up to be killed.
I’m as good as dead.
CHAPTER 6
Anastasia
After the truck comes to a shuddering stop, I hear car doors slamming shut and many voices.
There’s loud banging on the metal doors before they’re opened, and a moment later a bright light shines in my eyes.
A man shouts something, and when the others begin to climb out and bump into me in the process, I grit my teeth. I struggle to the edge and brace for a lot of pain before jumping to the ground. Unable to land on both my feet, I crumble to the rough concrete floor.
We seem to be at some kind of factory, and as the enemy’s soldiers begin to herd Ms. Fedorova and the others into the building, I suffer through the pain to climb to my feet and limp after them.
Being wounded makes me fear that they’re going to kill me first.
Orders keep being shouted in Russian, and I only manage to pick up a word here and there. It’s not enough to understand what’s being said, so I just follow the others’ lead.
When everyone stops and huddles together, I limp to the back of the group, hoping to hide behind them.
A man begins asking each captive a question.
Knowing I have to stop the bleeding, I untie the apron and sit down on the ground so I can wrap the fabric around my calf. Clenching my jaw, I tie the strings as tight as possible, but the pain intensifies so much that a whimper escapes from me.
“Nyet!” Ms. Fedorova cries, making my head snap up.
One of the men has grabbed her by her arm and is dragging her a few steps away before she’s forced down onto her knees.
As I struggle to stand up again, I draw the attention of the man who seems to be in charge, and he barks something at me.
“I’m E-E-English,” I stammer, a fresh wave of fear creeping over my skin.
“Name!” he barks.
“A-Anastasia.”
His expression darkens, and his lips pull away from his teeth, then his arm flies through the air, and he backhands me so hard my vision goes black as I fall to the side.
“Full name!”
My head spins as I push my upper body from the ground, and with a coppery taste filling my mouth, I mumble, “Anastasia Donovan.”
Something is said in Russian right before a man comes to grab hold of my bicep, dragging me across the floor to where Ms. Fedorova is kneeling.
One by one, anyone with Fedorov blood in their veins is separated from the others.
Suddenly, fire is opened on Ms. Fedorova’s friends and our guards, and as they’re killed right in front of us, my entire body goes numb with terror while some of my family cries.
The terror becomes too much to handle, muddling my mind, and it feels like something foreign takes over control of my body.
More orders are shouted at us, and when my family members climb to their feet and start walking, I get up and limp after them.
We’re taken out the back of the factory, and somehow the air feels colder as I take in the cracked concrete stretching beneath harsh industrial lights mounted high on rusted poles. I notice stacks of shipping pallets, dented dumpsters, and rusted machinery.
Every step I take sends pain shooting through my leg, and I grit my teeth to keep from making a sound.
Harsh Russian fills the air as flashlights sweep over us while the armed men herd my family across the yard.
None of us dare speak. Ms. Fedorova stares straight ahead, and the others keep their heads lowered, their faces pale with fear.
A soldier unlocks something, and when I peek around Boris, my mother’s oldest cousin, I’m horrified to see steel pens.
Dear God.
I think this factory was used for slaughtering animals.
Chains rattle, then we’re shoved into a pen before the gate is slammed shut with a loud clang and locked again.
While the others give each other worried glances and remain standing, I find the farthest corner and lower myself onto the filthy concrete, careful not to jar my leg.
Keeping an eye on the soldiers, I loosen the knot of my makeshift bandage enough to check the wound. Blood still seeps from the hole in my calf, but on closer inspection, I notice the bullet just ripped out a chunk of flesh and isn’t embedded in my leg.