No!
Artem…
My head sags. I have no strength left to hold it up.
Everything is crumbling. Everything is broken. Everything is fucked.
I guess this is how it ends for us.
There’s more talk, more shuffling around. A few men walk near to where I fell. I can see their boots crunching through the leaves.
“Where’s the Irishman?”
“Kicked him over that ledge. He’s dead.”
Fuckers. It’ll take more than a couple of gunshot wounds to kill me.
“And Artem?”
“Dying. The boss wants him to bleed out slowly. It’s just a matter of time. There’s no one out here anyway.”
“Let’s move out.”
“‘Bout fucking time.”
They do exactly that. Stomping off to go back to Los Angeles and take over the Bratva that was meant to be Artem’s. It takes only minutes.
And then I’m alone.
We’realone, I remind myself.
Artem is still alive.
Which means there’s fucking hope. If I can just get my body to cooperate, maybe I can save myself. Maybe I can save Artem.
I struggle for several minutes to move. But my muscles just won’t respond, and even the tiniest twitch sends scorching hot agony searing through me.
Moving is out of the question.
I need to call for help.
For someone.
For anyone.
But my mouth refuses to open. Any sounds coming out of me are swallowed at once by the harsh mountain wind.
More minutes tick by. They always say that your life flashes before your eyes like when you’re about to die.
Sounded like a bunch of bullshit to me.
But as I admit defeat, as I curl into myself and wait for death, my memories unleash with a fury.
I know I should be fighting unconsciousness. My eyelids are just so fucking heavy, though.
And the moment I close them, I see things. Things I haven’t seen in a very long time.
I see Dublin. The cobblestone streets I grew up on.