Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

"Was the tsarevich still alive?" Yurovsky asked through the smoke.

"Not anymore," Maks said.

The answer seemed to satisfy the commandant.

Maks rolled the bloodied body of Nicholas II back on top of the boy. He looked up as one of the Latvians moved toward the youngest daughter, Anastasia. She'd fallen in the initial volley and lay prostrate on the floor amid a thickening sea of blood. The girl was moaning, and Maks wondered if some of the bullets had found their mark. The Latvian was raising his rifle butt to finish the job when Maks stopped him.

"Let me," he mouthed. "I have not had the pleasure."

A smile curled on the other man's face and he backed away. Maks stared down at the girl. Her chest heaved from labored breath, blood streamed off her dress, but it was hard to tell if it was hers or from her sister's body nearby.

May God forgive him.

He brought the rifle butt down onto the girl's head. He angled it for a glance, enough to pound her into unconsciousness, but hopefully not enough to kill her.

"I'll finish her," Maks said, reversing the rifle to prepare the bayonet.

Luckily, the Latvian moved to another corpse without an argument.

"Stop," Yurovsky yelled.

The room went eerily quiet. No more flesh being serrated with blades. No more gunshots. No more moans. Just twelve men standing in thick smoke, the overhead electric lamp like the sun in a storm.

"Open the doors and let the smoke disperse," Yurovsky said. "We can't see a damn thing. Then check for pulses and report."

Maks moved straight to Anastasia. There was a pulse, faint and light. "Grand Duchess Anastasia. Dead," he called out.

Other guards reported more deaths. Maks moved to the tsarevich and rolled Nicholas over. He felt the boy's pulse. Beating strong. He wondered if he'd even been hit. "Tsarevich. Dead."

"Good fucking riddance," one of the Latvians said.

"We must remove these corpses quickly," Yurovsky said. "This room has to be cleaned before morning." The commandant faced one of the Russians. "Go get some sheets from upstairs." He turned back. "Start laying the bodies out straight."

Maks watched as a Latvian grabbed one of the grand duchesses. Exactly which was hard to tell.

"Look," the man cried.

Everyone's attention went to the bloodied young woman. Maks moved close with the others. Yurovsky came over. A glistening diamond shone through the ripped corset. The commandant bent down and fingered the stone. He then grabbed one of the bayonets and opened an incision in the corset, sliding the garment free from the dead torso. More jewels tinkered down, splattering the blood on the floor.

"The stones shielded them," Yurovsky said. "Bloody bastards sewed them into their clothes."

Some of the other men realized the fortune that lay around them and started for the women.

"No," Yurovsky shouted. "Later. But anything found is to be turned over to me. It belongs to the state. Anyone keeping even a button will be shot. Clear?"

No one said a word.

The man arrived with sheets. Maks knew that Yurovsky was in a hurry to get the bodies away from the house. He'd made that clear earlier. Dawn was only a few hours away and the White Army was just outside town, approaching fast.

The tsar's body was wrapped first and carried out to the waiting truck.

One of the grand duchesses was tossed on a stretcher. Suddenly, the girl bolted upright and started to scream. Horror gripped everyone. It almost seemed like heaven was working against them. The doors and windows of the house were now open, so there could be no more gunshots. Yurovsky palmed one of the rifles and thrust the blade into the girl's chest. The blade barely penetrated. He quickly reversed the rifle and slammed the butt into her head. Maks heard the skull crack. Yurovsky then jammed the blade deep into the girl's neck and twisted. There was gurgling and wrenching, blood spouted, then all movement stopped.

"Get these witches out of here," Yurovsky muttered. "They are possessed."

Maks moved to Anastasia and wrapped her in one of the sheets. A commotion came from the hall. Another of the grand duchesses had come back to life, and Maks glanced out to see men descend upon her with rifle butts and knives. He used the distraction to move to the tsarevich, still lying in the blood of his parents.

He bent close. "Little One."

The boy opened his eyes.

"Make no sound. I must carry you to the truck. Understand?"

A slight nod.

"Any sound or movement and they will skewer you."

He rolled the boy in the sheet and shoulder-carried both Alexie and Anastasia outside. He hoped the grand duchess did not awaken from her sleep. He also hoped no one checked for a pulse. Outside he discovered the men were far more interested in what they were finding on the bodies. Watches, rings, bracelets, cigarette cases, and jewels.

"I repeat," Yurovsky said. "All to be returned or you will be shot. There was a watch downstairs that is now gone. I am going back for the last body. When I return, it should be here."

No one doubted what would happen if it wasn't, and one of the Latvians removed the watch from his pocket and tossed it into the pile with the other booty.

Yurovsky returned with the last body. It was slung onto the back of the truck. The commandant carried a forage cap in his hands.

"The tsar's," he said, stuffing it onto one of the killer's head. "It fits."

The others laughed.

"They died hard," one of the Latvians said.

Yurovsky stared into the truck bed. "It is not easy to kill people."

A tarpaulin was spread over the bodies in the truck bed, sheets stretched underneath to soak up the blood. Yurovsky selected four men to accompany the truck, then stepped to the cab and climbed inside. The rest of the execution squad started to disperse to their assigned posts. Maks was not one of those selected to go and he approached the open passenger's-side window.

"Comrade Yurovsky. Might I come along? I would like to help finish."

Yurovsky angled his short neck. He was so dark in the night. Black beard. Black hair. Black leather jacket. All Maks could discern were the whites of his eyes through a chilling stare.

"Why not? Climb in with the others."

The truck motored out of the Ipatiev house through open gates. One of the other men noted the time out loud: three AM. They would have to hurry. Two bottles of vodka were produced and passed around among the men in the bed with the bodies. Maks took only shallow swigs.

He'd been sent to Yekaterinburg to lay the groundwork for an escape. There were generals in the tsar's former command who took their oath to the Crown seriously. There'd been rumors for months that the fate of the imperial family was sealed. But only in the last day had Maks learned what that meant.

His gaze drifted to the body pile under the tarp. He'd laid the boy and his sister on top, just under their mother. He wondered if the tsarevich recognized his face. Perhaps that was what had kept him quiet.

The truck passed the racetrack on the outskirts of town. It rolled past swamps, pits, and abandoned mines. Beyond the Upper Isetsk factory and across the railroad tracks the route entered dense forest. A couple more miles and another set of railroad tracks interfered. The only structures anywhere were the booths manned by railway watchmen, who were all asleep at this hour.

Maks could feel the roadway turn to mud. The truck slid as tires grabbed slippery earth. The rear wheels bogged in a quagmire, spinning freely, and the driver tried in vain to free the transport. Steam started billowing from the hood. The driver shut down the overheating engine and Yurovsky climbed from the cab, pointed to the darkened railway booth they'd just passed, and told the driver, "Go wake the attendant and get some water." He turned toward the truck bed. "Find some lumber to help the tires get out of this shit. I am going to walk ahead and look for Ermakov and his crew."