Cruel Compassion: A dystopian thriller with a hint of romance (Insurrection Series Book 1)

by A. E. King

  Is this massacre really my fault?

  “Help will be here soon. I’ll take care of her.” Gosha places a gun in Dima’s hand then grabs me, throwing me over his shoulder. I fight, but nothing works. He’s too strong. And I’m weak and foolish. I ruined everything.

  Chapter 38

  Gosha shoves me into the passenger seat of his black van. I pound my fist against the dashboard.

  “He was never in danger,” Gosha barks at me. “I shot him so he’d go down first and not be a target.”

  He slams the door shut and walks to the driver’s side. He climbs into his seat and punches the steering wheel. Too many faces fill my mind. The soldiers, shocked and afraid just before they died. The old man’s judgment. The enormous man’s protective determination that faded to betrayal. Dima’s panic. And now this. Gosha takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  I did this.

  The air between us pulses with anger. Gosha’s anger radiates toward me. Mine reaches for someone else to blame but comes back empty-handed and self-destructive. I struggle to know where to focus it. It is multifaceted, a Hydra capable of sprouting more heads. I fear it will eat me alive.

  “What’s the plan?” I grit my teeth, trying to control myself.

  “The plan?” he questions sarcastically. “Oh, you mean that thing you threw out the window.”

  “I mean the thing that keeps Dima, me, and you alive.”

  “I don’t have one at the moment.” He slams his hand on the dashboard. “I’d have to put another block on the hallways and the service staircase. It’s a week’s worth of work that I’d have to accomplish in the next thirty minutes while driving this car.”

  “Could you reprogram my prism-self to get out of bed and walk down to the lobby?”

  “No,” he says like I’m a complete idiot. “All a prism can do is play a previously recorded or computer-generated scene. A realistic CGI takes a week or more.”

  “What other resources do we have? Men? Money? Allies in the hotel? Zhenya is there. She would do anything I ask.”

  “Great! I’m risking my life to help an entitled, ungrateful princess, and my accomplice is geriatric. This is wonderful.”

  “Your accomplice is me. She’s an asset. What other assets do we have?” I don’t have time or patience for his condescending frustration, no matter how justified it is. “Are there any other ways to get back inside the building?”

  “Yeah. You could walk in, take your shoes off, and kick back on the sofa while you’re also sleeping in the bed.” His sarcasm is getting old.

  “Well then that’s our answer, isn’t it? I’m not going back to the room.”

  “I’m not dying for you tonight.”

  “Tie me up and gag me. Leave me in some housekeeping closet with a warning note. They’ll find the prism, realize I was taken, and it will make the whole night look like an ambush. It might even help Dima more.”

  I think it’s a brilliant idea. But based on his scowl, Gosha does not.

  “Do you want a second chance with the Myatezhniki? Framing them for kidnapping and murder is probably not a good look.”

  That’s a fair question. They clearly want Dimitri dead. If I could talk with their leader, I could get some clarity. It seems that the Myatezhniki follow the same pattern of wanting to use me without informing me. And heaven forbid anyone would listen to me. It tastes bitter. Or maybe that’s just the aftertaste of my guilt.

  Nevertheless, Gosha is right. I can’t afford to slam that door shut.

  “Pin it on the Organizatsaya. My father is paranoid anyway. It will feed the discord between him and them. And the Myatezhniki escape without notice.”

  “If the Organizatsaya wanted you dead, you’d be dead. They wouldn’t play this cat-and-mouse game.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I argue. “Leave a note that says something like, “Power given can also be taken.” He’ll suspect the Organizatsaya immediately. It will make him more disquieted that the tactic is not what he expects from them. He’ll be irrational and reckless.”

  “So nothing new,” Gosha grumbles.

  “Oh, it’s new because he’ll direct it toward the Organizatsaya. Maybe we’ll find out what happens when you bite the hand that feeds you.”

  Gosha scans the screen intently. “This is the one.” He points to a storage closet in the blueprint of the hotel. “I’ll get in and out in under ten minutes. Disrupting the system will fit into the storyline. I’ll have to wipe all of my files and leave the vehicle.” He looks around the vehicle longingly.

  The back of his van is filled with computers and technology that I can’t begin to understand. No wonder he was able to get me out of the hotel earlier. He has a mobile anti-surveillance unit. Given enough time, there is nothing this man couldn’t break into.

  “What if you didn’t wipe the footage?” I’m struck by a sudden idea. “Could you encrypt it and leave behind incriminating evidence against the Organizatsaya?”

  “Don’t have to,” he says as his fingers move across his keyboard. “The van itself is incriminating. He’ll know which family produced this vehicle.”

  “You’re part of the Organizatsaya?” My brow furrows, and my muscles tense reflexively. The gun in the corner no longer feels like a safety precaution but a threat.

  He scowls at me as though he can tell exactly what I’m thinking. “And you’re part of the royal family plotting with the rebels. Dimitri is part of the government plotting with me. Don’t be so surprised.”

  It’s true, but it doesn’t make me feel more confident in this stranger. I take a deep breath and borrow some of Dimitri’s trust in Gosha. “Will they know it’s you?” I ask.

  “They’ll trace it to my family, but there are bigger targets. Hopefully, the gun points to them first,” he answers, not taking his eyes off the screen. His fingers fly furiously across the keyboard. The clock is ticking. According to the Peredacha reports, Dima has already been rescued and is being transported to the hospital. Very soon, someone will get around to letting me know that my fiancé has been shot in the line of duty. I have to be in that closet before the message comes through.

  “Which family do you work for?” I ask him.

  “Not exactly first-date conversation,” he replies gruffly.

  I glance at the clock, my leg bouncing incessantly.

  “Done. We have five minutes to get you in, or I’ll be caught.” Gosha pushes a button on his computer, and everything goes dark.

  He grabs some rope and duct tape and binds me with such efficiency that it is clear he has done this many times. I would hate to be his enemy.

  “When you’re in the closet, sing the national anthem to yourself three times and then start kicking and making as much noise as possible. That will be enough time for me to disappear. It might take a while for them to find you.”

  I nod, and he covers my mouth in duct tape.

  Gosha pulls a black mask over his face, covering everything but his eyes. He opens the van door, peers into the alley, and then lifts me over his shoulder for the second time tonight.

  He places a small device on the service door and pushes a button. A light beeps three times before I hear a click. He opens the door, peers into the hallway, finds it empty, and starts to jog. When he reaches the next corner, he peeks around the side. Then he pulls back fast like he has been hit by a jolt of lighting and presses himself against the wall. My heart rate picks up. There must be someone in the hallway, and I fear they’re coming toward us. I am keenly aware of these lost moments, as though I can see a countdown in front of me.

  Gosha peeks around the corner again. This time the hallway is clear. I hold my breath as we pass a door with a small rectangular window. We reach the door with the sign marked boiler room. Gosha turns the handle, but it’s locked. He pulls a screwdriver out of his belt and shifts me on his shoulder, so I’m partially supported by the wall. Then he jimmies the lock.

  Gosha deposits me on th
e floor and turns to leave.

  “Wait,” I try to say, but it comes out as an indistinct yell. I intently look at him, and it takes him half a second to realize he’s missed a critical step. He comes back, places the note on my chest, and turns to leave without a word.

  I begin to sing in my mind.

  Novaya Russiya,—our sacred power . . .

  Chapter 39

  I pray in the little hospital chapel. I pray for Yana and for the other wives who won’t have husbands thanks to me.

  The process of trading lives is not nearly as simple as Andrei Stepanovich thinks. You don’t merely choose the ones you know over the ones you don’t. You protect the ones you know, and you pay the price for the rest. The price is thick, ugly guilt and soul-crushing regret.

  Dima’s in surgery. The doctor assured me he will be fine. He also assured me that I’m fine. After they found me in the boiler closet, they brought me to the hospital to assess the damage. The doctor found none. But he’s not the right type of doctor to understand my wounds.

  The doctors will pull a bullet out of Dima’s arm, stitch him up, and then what? Dima failed tonight by all accounts. What will be his punishment?

  The chapel door opens. I turn, hopeful it will be a doctor with some news. An icy chill runs down my back as my father’s presence taints this sacred space instead.

  He sits down next to me, and I fight the urge to scoot away.

  “We’ve got a mess to clean up,” he says.

  “No.” I shake my head. “You have a mess to clean up. I won’t be a part of this any longer.”

  I wipe my hands across my pants and suspect that my subconscious is trying to wipe away the proverbial blood. My hands are not clean.

  “The Dragovich family is responsible for all of these problems. When they’re gone, everything will get better,” he assures me.

  I laugh without any humor. “Better for who, Papa? Not our people. Not me. Only better for you.”

  The muscle in his jaw tightens, and I brace myself for the argument. But it doesn’t come. “I’ve made bad calls in my life, and undervaluing you is one of them.”

  “Shall I fetch the priest for your confessions?” I want him to stop talking. Every word he says feels like an attack on my fragile soul.

  “It’s a little late for that.” He’s not sneering. His usual calculating glare is gone. He looks almost like a normal man. “There’s not enough life left for me to atone for my sins. It’s time you and I have an honest talk.”

  “Honesty?” I scoff. All that’s ever existed between us is lies.

  “We’re the last ones left,” he begins, and I cut him off.

  “Because of you” There’s a deep loathing that I cannot contain.

  “Yes.” He’s not repentant or remorseful, but he doesn’t boast as I would have expected. “This job is not an easy one. Before you sit on your throne of judgment, look at the mess I inherited.

  “My parents were addicts and out of my life by the time I was seven. Staraya Russiya was not an easy place for a child to be homeless and alone. My fate was similar to those children you fight so hard to protect. I was purchased by an assassin. He trained me to send messages that would escape the police’s notice during the day. No one ever suspects a child. You can imagine what terrors filled my nights.”

  He continues. “Being a bought child is worse than death. The abuse is horrific. By the time I was a teenager, I was determined to find a way out. I listened and learned from the assassin, and I trained myself to kill efficiently. I bought my freedom with the blood of others.

  “It was ugly work, but I was free. And in between jobs, I could live an almost normal life.” He winces as he remembers things I can tell he would rather forget.

  I gasp at the horror of his childhood. I don’t want to feel anything for him, but I can’t help it. Sickness spreads through me as I hear his tale.

  “Then I met your mother. She was a dreamer just like you. And so beautiful.” He sighs with a little smile on his face, reminiscing about their happier days.

  “How was a boy like me ever going to be able to resist someone like her? We met, we fell in love, and we were married within a few months.” His smile fades. “At least, that’s what I’d always thought. It seems now that she had a target on my back even then.”

  “It didn’t end happily, Yulia. We both know that. But it wasn’t always miserable. We used to talk about our dreams and what we could do to make the country better.”

  I try to picture that version of my father, but can’t. Instead, I see myself plotting and planning to eradicate corruption while in the next moment committing murders. Am I just like he was? Is this what I’ll become?

  He misreads my fear as disbelief. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I wouldn’t if I were in your shoes. But all that happened before I was assigned to be the head of the Council.

  “I stepped in to create order in a bloodbath. The crime families were all fighting against each other, and citizens were dying in the crosshairs. Our people were starving. We’d been reduced to a joke in the national arena, and I had to make hard choices to stop the mass violence. It was like being asked to care for a dying man. I couldn’t make him whole again. I could only decide which limbs to amputate, which organs to operate on. But in the end, all I could do was prolong a miserable existence.

  “You think I like subjecting children to the same gory fate I had? Of course I don’t.” His gaze is fierce, as though he’s daring me to disagree. “But I couldn’t fix every problem. I had to focus on the few things I could control. I could get the families to work together and create a truce. I could strengthen our nation in the eyes of the world. I could regulate the crime. But believe me when I tell you that there was no stopping it.

  “I think that’s why your mother turned on me. She wanted to stop the crime. My power over it made it like a caged bear. Dangerous to keep. Dangerous to release. She wanted to let it go and face the consequences. I chose to control it.”

  I stop him. “She would have killed the bear so it couldn’t hurt others. You wanted to profit from it.”

  He doesn’t disagree. “In the end, she plotted against me. So she had to go. I missed her for a time.” He runs his hand through his hair and leans back in the pew. “I still miss her.”

  Listening to him justify his misdeeds, neglect, and criminalization of our government ignites a fire in me.

  He studies my face. “That, my dear, is the same look Sasha got in his eyes when he started plotting against me. I’ll give you fair warning: When my intelligence department reports on an assassination plot, I will shut it down. They left me no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.” I’m so sick of hearing him make excuses for his evil.

  “Of course there’s a choice. But you assume that it is a choice between right and wrong. What about when it is a choice between bad and worse? You’re not listening. My choice was to kill Sasha and keep the control I fought for and won. Or to let him kill me and have everything fall apart.”

  He continues. “You think it is bad now? You should have seen it before. Children were kidnapped from under their parents’ noses. Now we sell only the unwanted children who wouldn’t have had a chance anyway.”

  “You were one of those children!” I scream, and my voice ricochets off the stone walls. “You know exactly the pain you inflict, and you do it anyway.”

  “Yes, but imagine the pain of coming from a home with parents who loved you, then going into a home of abuse. Which is worse? If you shut down the orphanage exchange, they will still acquire children. I cannot change the hearts of men. When men are evil, all choices are evil, and my job is to keep that evil under control.”

  “That is because you’re a coward and afraid to fight the hard battles.” I can tell instantly that I’ve crossed a line.

  His eyes narrow. The guard he had let down is back. “You think that after a few weeks of this life you know anything about courage and cowardice? You don’t even und
erstand what you’re fighting against. It’s a losing battle. And it’s about to be yours.”

  I feel his words wrapping around me, binding in a way I feel but don’t understand. “They’d be better off if you were dead.”

  “Within a year, I will be.” He clears his throat as he drops this new bomb, shocking me into silence. “You will be my successor. You’ll have your chance to do all the good you speak of. But don’t get your hopes up. You’ll really just spend your life choosing between bad and worse.”

  “You’re dying?” I ask, trying to process the news.

  “It’s cancer.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s a shame, really. One of the few problems I can’t buy my way out of.”

  “I don’t want the job,” I say quietly.

  “Of course you don’t, but if not you then who? Kostya? Andrei?

  “You’ve impressed me over the last few weeks. When I got the call that you and Dimitri were both in jeopardy, it became abundantly clear that he’s the disposable one. You’re the one this country can’t live without. You have your mother’s compassion, Sasha’s relentlessness, and my cunning. You’re the best of all of us.” He smiles with pride.

  I don’t want to do anything that makes this man proud of me.

  He runs his hands through my hair. Repulsion ripples down my body. I pull back protectively. He says, “Every crosshair in the world will be aimed at your pretty little head. Every mistake will cost lives. Every success will come at the expense of others. It’s a hard world, but you’ll learn it.”

  “I don’t want to learn it,” I whisper to him.

  The disparity between idealism and reality mocks me. Haven’t I been dreaming of him being dead? Haven’t Dimitri and I been trying to free our nation of his grasp? Whether it’s God, the universe, or karma, some greater force steals our mission. And the result is repulsive. I don’t want any of this.