The Bratva’s Locked Up Love by Jagger Cole

4

Maksim

Kyzyl, Russia, Fourteen Years Ago:

The man gaspsbreathlessly for air. But none is coming. Not with my hand’s pressing the wooden stick against his trachea. His eyes bulge, his face turning purple.

Kneeling astride his chest in the dust and grime of the killing pit, I can feel my own hot blood trickling down my neck. His last hit was a good one. I’m still seeing stars. But I’ll live. Him, though?

I glance up, squinting through bright floodlights of the blood-soaked arena. The death fights are held in what was once a Soviet gulag on the outskirt of one of Russia’s most dangerous cities, Kyzyl. Most of the place is burned down or covered in graffiti and used needles. But the old truck depot is where we fight—for favor, for glory.

But mostly, we’re fighting for the sweet, blissful escape of heroin.

When I look up, the lord and master of this place grins back at me. Chrome glistens in his teeth, like the diamonds around his neck and on his fingers. Yaro Sashanko isn’t actually a king, nor is he remotely like the American gangster rappers he likes to model himself after. But he’s the biggest dope dealer in Kyzyl. Which in a way, makes him bigger than a king.

To us, he may as well be God. The poison he pushes is our communion, and we’re fucking sinning our asses off for a taste of that Eucharist.

Yaro grins down at me. He whispers something to the two trashy-looking strippers sitting on either side of his big chair up there in the stands. He turns back to me. Then, like a track-suit wearing Roman Emperor, he brings a hand up high, thumb down.

Death it is.

I turn back to the man gurgling beneath me. My eyes sweep down my arms. For a brief second, I’m ashamed. Ashamed and bitter at what I’ve become. Four years ago, I was top of my class at the Military Academy. I was being courted for Officer training by my superiors.

Then, I rotated to Afghanistan for a six-month tour of hell itself. A month into that horror, a guy on his fourth tour let me in on the little secret on how they all stayed remotely sane while over there. An all-time best friend. A secret lover. A drop-out into the stars when reality became so bad you wanted to blow your brains out.

That’s the day I discovered heroin. And I’ve never looked back.

One hit, and I was in love. Head-over-heels infatuated obsession. Within a month, they had me in mandatory psyche evaluation, which is army-speak for “rehab.” But rehab for heroin, in Afghanistan? It was like trying to quit cocaine at Pablo Escobar’s house.

Dope was everywhere over there. I couldn’t even walk back to my barracks from the psyche office without getting three sales offers. I faked it for another month before they finally busted me selling base supplies to feed the habit.

After that, I was done; court-marshaled, dishonorably discharged, and sent home, where I promptly skipped out on my hearing because I had something better to do: heroin, of course.

My jaw grits as I glance at my arms. I used to be so strong they called me “the hammer” at basic. Part of me wonders if my name is still up on the wall back there, holding the camp deadlift record.

Now, I’m half of what I used to be; at best. The muscle mass is wasting away. I’m still strong, but it’s not muscle; it’s the burning, throbbing need for more of the sweet release that only heroin brings. You hear about mothers lifting cars to save their children. Wait until you see what a junkie can do for one more sweet hit.

Track-marks line my arms. Ink from a dozen homemade tattoo guns in various jails and on the streets mix with the scars on my skin; like a broken, haphazard map to hell.

“Ubey yego!” Yaro gleefully yells at me. Kill him. I drag my eyes up to the blinged-out Caligula grinning smugly at me. He smirks as he pulls out a little baggy of brown powder and dangles it.

That’s all I need.

With zero emotion, I turn back to my opponent in the fight. We both knew only one of us was leaving here. But the stakes were worth it. Literally anything is worth it when it comes to getting that next hit.

When I press down on the stick across his neck, I’m not even thinking about what I’m doing. All I’m thinking about is that brown powder, a spoon, a needle, and the hot shot right to the soul.

Later, when I’m slumped against the wall of the burned-out mess-hall I call home with a needle in my vein, all I know is bliss. The tie falls from my teeth as I groan and let my head drop back against the soot-streaked, spray-painted wall. My arm drops, the needle still deep. But I literally could not care less.

A dozen yards away, one of the local prostitutes is getting railed by some grungy looking guy against a pile of trash. A few other lost souls like me are playing some kind of drinking card game around a fire that smells like burning plastic and cancer. Gunfire thuds not that far away, followed by the cry of someone dying.

I don’t give a single shit, about any of it, or anything at all.

I just grin the slow, euphoric junkie smile as I look up through the shattered ceiling. You can’t see the stars above this place. But I imagine them there anyway as I let myself drown in the poisonous escape.

With heroin, even hell feels like salvation.

Present:

I come-to with a start.For a brief second, my surroundings confuse me. It’s dark, and hot. I’m in a cage, within a stone room, like the dungeon of a castle. Then, recognition hits me.

I’m in the hole.

I’ve been here once before for somewhere between three and five days by my count. It was not a pleasant experience, and I don’t expect things to be very different this time around.

I groan as I look up to where my arms are shackled above my head, chained to the top bars of the cage. Yeah, this will be about as fun as the last time I was down here.

Just like last time, I’ve been knocked out before they brought me here. My head is still fuzzy from the drugs, but I can feel the haze clearing as I breathe deeply. My memory flashes back to the mob of soldiers tackling me in that cell. I remember the fists and the boots smashing into me until my head swam. I remember the cuffs, and the familiar prick of a needle in my arm. And then, only darkness.

With a grunt, I look up at my left arm. Sure enough, there’s the little white square of a gauze taped over where they injected me with the sedative. I smirk. It’s almost amusing that the people who would lock me in here would be so gentle about giving me a needle. It’s even more amusing that under my tattoo ink is a hundred scars from needles I was far less gentle with.

I take a breath and relax as best I can. I breathe again, trying to center my thoughts. For a while, after I got clean, it was impossible to have any basic trains of thoughts. Any time I tried to think through any problem or situation, I couldn’t get two steps before all I wanted was the sizzle of the spoon and the hot flood of heaven in my veins.

But that was my old life. I’m not weakened by addiction and hopelessness anymore. My arms are stronger than they ever were even when I was “the hammer.” The scars are still there on my skin. But I’ve been clean and sober for ten years now. All thanks to the man who saved my life.

My brow creases as I glare into the semidarkness of my solitary cell. It’s been two months since they brought me to this place. But the pieces are starting to fit together. The militaristic but non-military guards. The other inmates being members of organizations like Al Qaeda or the Mexican Cartels. The fact that there are no windows here. Or that I’ve never been told why I’m here, or read my rights, despite being in the United States.

I’m a hole. I’m in a place that is meant to be forgotten and unknown. This place is Guantanamo, but underground. Literally, I’m guessing. I’m not a good man, and I work well outside the laws of most countries. But I’m not a terrorist. I’m no freedom fighter, or people’s liberation whatever, or a Third-Reich jerk-off neo-Nazi.

So the obvious question is… why the fuck am I here?

My jaw grits, and my eyes narrow as my pulse throbs hotly in my veins. My mind flashes back to the events of earlier. But mostly, it flashes back to her.

I growl as my teeth grind.

One question might be “why am I here.” But now, there’s a bigger, more looming question: why the fuck didn’t I try to get out when I had the chance?

My jaw tenses as my eyes pierce the dimness of the cell. My arms flex against the chains as the memory of it all plays out again.

I know damn well why I didn’t take the shot when I had it. The plan was to get hurt enough to need medical attention in one of the medical cells. The plan was to get free and use the doctor who treated me as a human shield to freedom.

That plan never involved her.

I groan as my mind flashes back to the gorgeous young doctor with the big blue eyes and soft, plump limps. The one with the long brunette ponytail begging to be wrapped around my fist. Her, with the soft skin and the throb of heated pulse right beneath the surface.

She made me hesitate. She made me freeze. She wrecked my entire plan, and I regret not a single thing about that.

The second I saw her, I knew the plan had changed. I knew I could never use an angel like that for a shield.

I take a breath, and then I roll my eyes at myself. A part of me wants to smack myself for not taking the opportunity. Wherever I am, and for whatever reason, getting out is not going to be an easy thing. In fact, I may have just blown my one chance to do so, all because of a spark.

All because of one girl with big blue eyes. All because of a stupid fucking momentary… what, crush?

I growl as I grit my teeth. This was foolish. Getting free of this place is paramount. Not just for myself, but for the Bratva. For the brotherhood that is my world, and the reason I’m alive today. For Yuri—not just my boss, but the man who saved my life; the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had.

And now, I’ve let the opportunity go. I allowed myself to be weak for one moment, all for a woman I will most certainly never see—

There’s a clanking sound of metal. I startle, frowning as I turn slightly. The darkness is briefly flooded with light, and then the shadowed silhouette of someone stepping through a doorway into the stone chamber of my cell.

I hear a man grunt something at the first silhouette that I can’t quite hear. Then with a creaking wrench of metal, the heavy door swings shut. And I’m alone with the silent silhouette.

The shape moves slowly towards me, but then pauses just outside the light from the one dim bulb hanging above me. My eyes narrow as I glare at him.

“What the fuck do you want?” I snarl.

The shape says nothing.

“You can stop the theatrics,” I growl. “And just tell me why the fuck I’m here. What is this, CIA?” My temper flares. I’m not scared by this silence bullshit. I’m not intimidated by this attempt to dehumanize me. I’ve seen hell. I’ve looked the devil in the eye and spit in his face.

When the shape still says nothing, I slowly grin. “You do not scare me,” I chuckle with a rasping laugh. “So unless there’s anything else, you can fuck off and leave me the fuck—”

“I’m not trying to scare you.”

I freeze. The soft, feminine voice floats through the stone cell like a butterfly in a storm. I recognize it instantly, and I feel my pulse surge when I do.

Slowly, Quinn—the doctor—steps into the light, and I groan. It’s like looking at an angel. My hesitation with her concerning my plan might be the reason I’m chained in this cage. And yet looking at her feels like salvation.

My eyes lock with hers. My pulse thuds in my ears as I see the flicker of goodness behind those big blue orbs—a goodness that’s rare in this world. A goodness I’ve hardly ever known.

“Then tell me,” I growl quietly. “Doctor.”

She trembles when I say her name into the darkness.

“Why are you here?”

She swallows. But then slowly, she raises her hand, holding a small bottle.

“You need antibiotics.”

I smirk. Slowly, I open my mouth wide.

“Aaaahhh.”

She smiles. She smiles and it feels as though the whole world is smiling with her. It brightens the dimness of this cell. It soothes the ache of the wounds in my back.

“I’m… I’m not going to come in there and put them in your mouth,” she says quietly.

“Why not?”

She blushes with a pinkness.

“Because that would be dangerous.”

I smile. “And why is that?”

Her lips purse. Her eyes flicker over me. “You know why.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Because…”

“Because?”

Her teeth rake over her plump bottom lip. “Because you are dangerous.” Her eyes hold mine with a boldness. “Aren’t you?”

I smile and shrug. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“So… my antibiotics?”

“You’ll be given them with your next meal.” She swallows. “By a guard.”

“And so you came down here just to tell me that?”

Her face reddens again. “I—” she frowns. “Yes.”

“It seems like you could have just—”

“Who are you?” she blurts. Her brow is furrowed as she looks right at me through the dimness and through the bars.

I could lie. I could tell myself it doesn’t matter what she knows or thinks about me. But I can’t. I’m unable to, just as I was incapable of using her to get out of this place before. I won’t hurt this angel. Just like I won’t lie to her.

My eyes hold hers firmly. “That’s what you came down here to ask me?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“Maksim,” I say quietly. “My name is Maksim.”

Slowly, she smiles. “Nice to meet you, Maksim.”