Summer, 1981. Soviet Moscow.

  They’re after me. There are a lot of them, and they’re older. Much older. And I’m just seven.

  Why are they in our yard? You’d have to be crazy or incredibly bold to come to our yard looking for trouble. But they’re chasing me, which means they came for a fight. They’re silent, and that’s bad.

  Who are they? There’s no time to wonder now. I just need to make it to the building entrance. They’re taller and faster, catching up. I’m running out of time.

  I burst into the building, grab the handle, and slam the door shut behind me.

  No locks. I grip the handle with both hands and plant my foot against the wall.

  They’re trying to pull the door open from the other side. I hold tight. Only one of them can grab the handle at a time. One-on-one—that’s the key.

  But they switch. This one’s strong. Too strong. I’m not going to hold him. I throw all I have into it. Time slows. One push against the pull.

  The door gives way, as if surrendering under the force. The big guy goes tumbling down the steps, taking others down with him. I leap. Seven steps at a time. My flight feels agonizingly slow. I land, absorbing the impact with my hands.

  Run. My legs won’t obey. Run. Make it to the corner.

  Three of them shake it off and give chase. The others are still helping the big guy.

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  Run, run. The corner’s close. You’ve got a small lead.

  Here it is. A rock, right where I need it.

  They round the corner. I step forward, pull my arm back, and hurl the rock with everything I’ve got. My arm whips like a slingshot.

  The first guy drops, slamming against the wall. He falls flat on his back. The other two hesitate, clearly unsure.

  A knife appears in my hand. Its slightly curved blade glints menacingly, thirsty. It was always there, hidden against my wrist.

  They retreat. Run—it’s not over yet.

  Another building. I glance back. They’re recovering. Chasing again.

  Upstairs. Forget the elevator. It’s a trap.

  I hear their footsteps below. The elevator starts. They’re trying to box me in, from above and below.

  No problem. I can climb faster than an elevator. But not now. Not after this much running.

  I collapse. My legs give out. I grab the railing and pull myself up, hand over hand.

  Almost there. The elevator’s catching up.

  Twelfth floor. Maybe I can escape across the rooftops. Or… No time to hesitate.

  I stop, looking at the rooftops. It’s a way out, but too long, too risky. I need something faster. Panic whispers to keep moving, but my mind resists. I need to be quicker, smarter. Forward. To the control room. That’s my chance—or my end.

  I burst into the control room. Massive wheels spin cables. Switches. Flip them. Stop.

  The cables grind to a halt.

  Screams. Chaos. I made it. They’re close. I can see the elevator roof.

  The stair runners try to free the ones trapped in the elevator.

  Quietly, I descend. A mistake. I should’ve taken the rooftops. Adrenaline clouds judgment.

  Of course, one of them turns around. Sixth sense? No, he smelled me.

  Adrenaline surges—too much.

  I leap across the stairwell to the next flight. Another leap. But I’m spent. I land poorly, collapse, twist my ankle. Game over.

  I try to stand. Hands grab me, lifting me like a ragdoll. That’s it. I try to shut out the pain. It’ll hurt, but not for long. Then… peace. And freedom.

  They shake me. It’s my guys. They woke up. Finally.

  No words. Too much time has passed. I point upward, then lower my thumb. They get it.