between thickets of trees, we zigzag downhill, advancing. We can outmaneuver them. We can outpace them.
However, our boots imprint the snow—they won’t have to be experts to track us.
I’m forced to let off round after round over my shoulder. A shot passes so close to my ear it singes my skin.
Covering my head, I yell to my father, “Out!”
On the run, he lobs a mag over to me.
Hurdling a tree root, I catch it with one hand, push out the empty, and punch in the new one.
We dart downhill, gaining distance.
Chechen orders are called out behind us. Then every nearby tree explodes in bits of shrapnel, bark, and branches. Machine-gun fire whistles overhead—
I dive behind an enormous evergreen trunk.
Muffled by the snow, footsteps shuffle in the distance. Are they moving at us? Around us? Away from us? I steal a glance around the trunk. A spray of bullets lodge into bark centimeters from my face.
Ducking back, I look over at my father. He’s taken cover meters away.
His skin is turning an eerie gray. His neck is red. His jacket below the collar is crimson.
Applying pressure to his neck wound, he winks at me. “Ready, tiger?”
I mouth back, “Ready.”
Crouching, he unloads his empty mag and shoves in a new one. Holding my FN 5-7, I check my own mag. One round left.
“I’ll be right behind you,” he continues.
“What do you mean—”
“Go!”
Simultaneously we lunge from our cover, firing.
I leap over a tree stump and maneuver the steep incline, navigating gnarly branches and pushing aside foliage. He’ll be right behind me, covering for us both, like he’s always done, protecting me.
Glancing over my shoulder, I watch him approach the wall of Chechens, firing with both hands.
Two men go down. A third.
My father continues advancing farther away from me, toward the enemy, until—
A bullet sinks into my father’s left pectoral. Another in his right. A third bullet ravages his ear.
“Dad!” I shriek.
His knees buckle.
Behind him, a Chechen rises out of a bush with an AK-47.
“NO!” I shout.
Using my last bullet, I aim my FN 5-7, and drop the Chechen.
Out of nowhere, I am tackled.
I tumble downhill, rolling over and over until the momentum stops.
Shots whistle high above my head, but I don’t shield myself.
I dash up the steep incline, curvetting over rocks and logs toward my father. By the time I reach him, he’s taken cover inside a hollow.
I push my fingers into his chest wound. “You’re fine …” I cup my palm over his ear to keep it from falling off. “It’s clean …”
His face is gaunt; his eyes blink rapidly; a ghostly pallor has overtaken his skin.
Shielded inside the hollow, I peer uphill. The men flank us—moving toward us while spreading out, forming a circle, like a pride of lions stalking prey.
He shifts his legs, attempting to stand, pushing his hand against the massive stump.
I drop my spent FN 5-7. Wedging my arm behind his back, I prop my father’s body against mine. I’m unable to support his weight; we sink to the frozen earth.
As they close in, circling us, I hear the Chechens: murmurs, heavy footfalls, the clicking sound of guns being reloaded. But the only frightening sound is my father convulsing, choking on his own blood.
“Dad, you have to stand!” Clinging to him, I tug at his coat. “I can’t carry you!”
Gently, his palm meets my cheek. “Bearings?” His voice is weak.
I squint at the sky. Moonlight is fading into dawn. “North at my six. We can make it—”
“Yes,” he chokes gutturally, “you can.”
A thick hand grabs my shoulder, yelling at me to stand, attempting to haul me backward.
Snatching my father’s HK, I shoot the man’s kneecap.
He howls, releasing me. Wriggling away from his writhing body, I refocus on my father. I need to shield him—protect him.
His eyelids flutter. “Sophia …”
This time, I am torn from his chest—my fingers ripped from his coat.
Reaching for him, I shriek, “Dad!”
Thick arms lock around my chest, dragging me gruffly back. I am being pried away, but the tears are coming so fast I can’t see anything.
Move! I want to say. Get up! You’re supposed to be fighting them! We’re supposed to be doing this together! We always shoot together!
I am wrestled uphill, farther and farther away from him—
Suddenly, a perfect, hard pop! splits open the earth.
The man dragging me slumps to the ground, a dark wound centered on his forehead. Startled I look back.
My father lowers his spare Smith & Wesson revolver. It falls from his fingertips, empty, its shiny handle glinting in