Page 9 of Maksim

My eyes lock onto it, garnering all my attention to the point that my movements seize. I have to force myself to look away.

If he’s going to kill me, I have no other choice.

I have to kill him first.

3

MAKSIM

Ido not enjoy killing the innocent.

I am not a sadist. I do not think of myself as cruel. I don’t kick dogs, I don’t leave babies to cry, I don’t even turn off my porch light on Halloween. I buy full-size candy bars to leave in a bowl even when I know they’ll be grabbed by the same two or three kids.

I am not inherently a bad man. I am a man who does bad things when times call for it. Times like tonight.

The Albanian girl sits with her hands tucked beneath her in the passenger seat of my car. I know that she’s Albanian because before we left the warehouse, I showed her a map so she could point to her home country, far, far away from here. I pity her, I really do. I don’t know how she wound up here or why, but it’s a long way to travel just to die in the desert.

We’re thirty miles away from the nearest sign of civilization, but I keep going a few more miles. There’s a hilly spot I have in mind that reminds me of what the Mexican border looks like, at least in the dark, and I’m guessing she crossed from Mexico to get here. She was in a truck for a day, at least, so she must’ve been on the far end of the border.

When I see the familiar turn, I take it and drive the two miles in until we’re close to the hill. Then I put the car in park. The girl doesn’t look at me, but her breaths are fast and shallow. She’s terrified. She has been since the moment I saw her, but I think she can guess what’s about to happen. Still, she doesn’t cry or beg. I haven’t heard her speak a peep of Albanian yet.

“Relax,” I coo, placing my hand on her shoulder. She jumps, her head whipping toward me, her eyes wide.

I smile and hold up my free hand while massaging her shoulder with the other. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I’m a bastard, I know.

Pulling my hand away, I shut off my car and climb out of the vehicle, letting my smile fall as I take a long breath.

I walk around and carefully open the passenger door, extending my hand for the girl to take. None of my movements are hurried or rough. Everything about this must be suspicious, but I let none of my intentions show in my actions.

You could see it as cruel, but I don’t want her to know what hit her. I want her to die with hope, not fear. Not looking down a barrel, but at salvation that only exists in her head.

It’s either cruel or merciful. I’m really not sure which.

She lets the suspicion show in her furrowed brow as her eyes dart over my face before carefully, she takes my hand to let me help her out of the car. I pull out my phone and bring up Google translator so I can type a message in her language.

Just over that hill is the Mexican border. There’s a man on the other side waiting to take you home.

I scan the translated text then turn my phone around so she can see. Her eyes eagerly dance between me and the screen. Several seconds go by without her responding, like she either doesn’t understand or doesn’t know how to process it.

I’m leaning toward thinking it’s the former when her body flings into mine, her arms wrapping around my midsection.

“Faleminderit,” she cries, and although I don’t speak the language, I know it means thank you. She sobs against my chest, squeezing me tightly while guilt knocks on my conscience.

Okay, now I regret the merciful tactic. I should’ve just killed her. This feels more cruel than anything.

A sharp pain stabs my side, making my arms wrapped around the girl tense and my thoughts vanish.

I look down at the blade in her hand, dripping with blood, and before I have a chance to respond, she thrusts it into my side a second time.

My mouth opens, but sound doesn’t come out because she pulls it out and does it again, then a fourth time, her quick movements reminding me of Nikita, and finally it occurs to me that I should let her the fuck go to get the little devil off me.

“Fuck,” I yell, shoving her backward. She falls, but so do I. One knee hits the ground while I touch the five fucking stab wounds seeping blood. The blade is short—Nikita enjoys slow deaths—so the cuts aren’t that deep, but bleeding out is a possibility.

Fucking cunt.

I don’t get out my gun. Not yet. I have dealt with so many people, no number comes to mind, so I fully predict that this bitch will try to run away.