Zommunist Invasion by Picott, Camille (ebook reader ink TXT) 📗

shook as he sucked in great gulps of air, trying to get his panic under control.

The stench of cigarette smoke was strong. Even under the clear stream of water, he smelled the agent’s smoke. He felt it enter his lungs and choke him.

That KGB fuckhead might be dead, but Anton knew he’d carry that asshole with him for the rest of his life.

He probed at the cigarette burns, wincing at the pain. His hands slid down to his ribcage, where the pain was worst. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had cracked ribs.

How did someone heal a cracked rib? It wasn’t like he could get a body cast. Did they even give people body casts for cracked ribs?

He didn’t think so. Leo had mentioned one of his teammates cracking a rib in a particularly brutal football game. The guy had been benched for half the season, but he hadn’t worn a body cast.

He stabbed a tender rib. Pain spidered up his body. Impulsively, he stabbed several of the cigarette burns, welcoming the pain. It was easier to block out memories of the Craigs when he was in pain.

What Anton really wanted to do was curl into a ball and fall asleep under the warm water.

He could just imagine what Nonna would say to that. “Does propane grow on trees, Antony? What will we do now that you’ve wasted our entire tank?”

He forced himself to his knees. Grabbing a bar of soap, he scrubbed his body. He was ruthless with the cuts, especially those that had been carved into his chest. The soap stung, but it felt good. Blood trickled down his body as scabs softened under his rough hand. The red mingled with the steaming water and disappeared down the drain in pink swirls.

Switching off the water, his hand hesitated over the cheery yellow towels stacked on the back of the toilet. His mother had bought those towels before she died. No one had wanted to change them out for new ones, even though the edges were frayed and there were small holes in all of them. They were a memory of a happier time when the Cecchino family had been intact.

The blood would stain them. Anton couldn’t stand the thought of staining one of his mother’s towels.

Dripping wet, he stepped out of the shower. Every step sent a shockwave of pain through his body. He ignored it, crouching down to open the cabinet under the sink.

Tucked inside was a stack of dark brown towels. Nonna had purchased those, declaring that sometimes hunters were just too dirty to use yellow towels. Anton took one of them, dabbing at the trickle of blood that ran from the carving in his chest.

Pushing back into an upright position felt like an Olympic feat. His leg muscles protested. Bruises had surfaced all over them, presents from the Russian scum bags.

Slowly, he toweled himself dry. The mirror was fogged from the shower steam. Moving automatically, he swiped the towel across the surface.

The white fog was cleared away, revealing his face.

Anton wasn’t prepared for the shock of it. Through the small beads of perspiration that remained on the surface of the mirror, he saw the swollen face of a teenage boy. There were bruises on top of bruises. Cuts on tops of cuts. All the goddamn cigarette burns were red and blistered.

The sight brought the Russian prison cell crashing back in around him.

Tate—Mrs. Craig—Mr. Craig—

The crack of gunshots as his friends were executed. The memory exploded in his ears like fireworks. He gagged on the stench of cigarette smoke, even though all he could smell was the steamy remains of the shower.

It took every ounce of willpower not to punch the mirror with his fist. Nonna would not approve if he destroyed the mirror. She would not approve at all. Her cabin had already been destroyed by mutants. She didn’t need her fucked-up grandson adding to the mess.

He gripped the edges of the sink, sweat breaking out along his back and brow. His heart beat painfully in his chest.

He sank to the floor, struggling to breathe. Was he having a heart attack? He hoped so. Dying here in the bathroom of the beloved family cabin was a good way to go.

His chest heaved as he sucked in great gulps of air, fighting silently against the panic that threatened to choke him.

When it was finally over, he slumped against the bathroom door, even more exhausted than he had already been.

Maybe he really would go to sleep in the middle of the floor.

Pull your shit together, he berated himself. Stop being a pussy.

Gripping the edge of the sink, he dragged himself to his feet. He forced himself to face the boy in the mirror. He’s stared at the boy made in the KGB torture chamber, daring himself to meet him.

No one would ever again call him good looking. The cigarette scars would see to that. Only time would tell how the rest of his face would heal.

He realized he didn’t give a fuck how he looked. What did it matter anyway? Being a pretty boy had never counted for much. It had never been enough to get him the things he really wanted. They hadn’t handed him a pretty girlfriend. They hadn’t helped him throw the football.

They sure as fuck hadn’t helped him survive Russian torture.

He had Kozlovovitch to thank for that. Finding the big man—or rather, being found by him—was like getting the winning lottery ticket.

Not only had Koz saved his life, but he’d shared a lot of information on their ride from Rossi. The big man just might be able to turn the tide of this war—if Anton could get him alive to the right people.

If Anton wanted to see the Russians royally fucked, Koz was the key. Anton had to survive if only to get Koz and his information to what remained of the American military.

Purpose. Mission. It would be enough. He would survive, and he would see the Russian scum get