“Hey, man,” I say, holding up my hands. I’m making up a story in my head about who I am, falling into the role. I am a worker kid, just off the bus, looking for a job and a place to crash—someone told me about this place because of its connection to Zacharov. “I was just stealing food. I’m sorry. I’ll wash the dishes or whatever to pay for it.”
Then the door on the other side opens and Anton and Philip step through.
“What the hell?” the man with the shaved head says.
“Get away from him,” says Philip.
The guy with the long coat swings his g*n toward my brother.
I reach out my hand instinctively and touch the barrel, to push it away from Philip. The metal is warmer than I thought it would be. Then something in me reaches as instinctively as I reached out my hand and changes the g*n.
It
