Craving The Wrong Brother

Especially when the men storming in were Russians there to retrieve their captured soldiers.”

His fingers flex at his side.

“I survived because I could speak their language. One prison became another prison. And if you think the Afghans were inventive, you should’ve met the Russians.” His smile fades. “They took my eye before they decided I might be telling the truth about not being a spy. After that, everything else is a blur. Translating. Running. A bomb. Living with locals. Hiding.”

He leans forward, eyes locked on Knox.

“When I made it back to the country I still called home, I went looking for your grave, Knox. The one I thought they’d dug for you after you died in that camp. I wanted to say goodbye properly. Imagine my surprise when I found out you were alive. Thriving, even.”

His voice hardens.

“You owe me an apology. And I’m going to get it, or I swear to God your girlfriend’s blood will be all over this floor.”

Knox never looks away from me.

“You’re right,” Knox says. “I do owe you an apology. For refusing to kill a child. For that, I’m deeply sorry.” His voice drops. “But you really shouldn’t have put a gun to the head of the woman I love.”

Mateo grins. “Desperate times. I’m sure you understand. But that apology is weak. That’s not all you owe me. What about my life?”

Knox’s lips twitch. “Right. You’ll get your apology. I’ll say it over your fucking grave.”

The gunshot comes before my brain can catch up.

For a split second, nothing makes sense.

Then the man behind me collapses.

One moment, the barrel is pressed to the back of my head. Next, his weight falls on me, knocking the air from my lungs as we crash forward. I hit the ground hard, my shoulder screaming in protest as his body folds over mine.

Blood pours down my back.

There’s no time to scream before guns go off all around me.

I gently push the dead man off me, and his corpse lands on my left side.

My teeth are chattering, even though the basement isn’t cold. Dust kicks up with every bullet that hits the floor or walls. I don’t know where to look. I can’t look. My lungs feel too small for the panic I’m trying to breathe through.

I force my eyes open and see the gun.

His gun.

The man’s fingers are still curled loosely around the handle, his grip now so slack that I can pry it free. My hands shake as I take it.

I start crawling.

There’s no time to think, no room for anything except movement. Survival. The concrete scrapes my knees raw, and the dead man’s blood makes everything slippery. Two feet ahead, I spot an old metal filing cabinet—tall, dented, its surface eaten away by rust that flakes under my touch. It isn’t bulletproof, not really, but it’s something. Better than lying exposed, waiting to be killed.

I duck behind it just as a bullet whizzes past and lodges itself into the con‍