TERESA
Stone explodes in gritty shards as Vlad yanks me down.
My palms smack the ice-cold ground, the sting barely registering before another silenced shot chips the stair rail overhead. Marble dust blows across my face.
Vlad mutters coordinates, but the comms line goes dead. Dmitri can’t hear us. We’re alone.
“Come.” He pulls me to my feet and we pivot north, sprinting along the lake’s frozen rim. My lungs burn icy hot, breath raspy in my scarf.
A shadow leaps from behind an oak with a rifle. Vlad fires twice without breaking stride. Two soft pops and the man folds. Blood splatters the pristine snow, and I flinch at the wet thud of his body falling. Vlad wipes his muzzle with a gloved thumb, dragging the body into the brush. No hesitation, no wasted motion. Textbook elimination.
We charge on, weaving through skeletal trees until the bowels of Bow Bridge appear—arched stone throat, maintenance tunnel yawning beneath. The padlock hangs twisted, already cut. Vladshoves me into a narrow alcove dark as a closet, cramming a discarded snow shovel across the door.
“You can’t seriously be shoving me in a freaking cage!”
“Safest place. Let me do my work.”
Through a knothole I watch him melt into the night, dark coat blending in with the shadows.
Work. I know what that means. Deadly work. Work he’s very good at.
Silence stretches on. Suddenly, I hear snow crunching, gunman number two creeping along the bank, scanning. I watch as Vlad drops from a boulder above, arm sweeping in a silver arc. Blade flashes, blood sprays.
A radio blips somewhere in the distance. I watch a man in a black parka rush past the entrance to the tunnel, Vlad following behind him silently, slowly, like a vampire. Then I hear a sharp snap—neck breaking like an icicle.
My attention turns in the other direction as boot steps pound on the stairs, coming toward me. My vision tunnels. I grope in darkness, trying to find something, anything I can use to defend myself. My fingers close around what feels like a rusted wrench. The door rattles, jolting open. I raise the wrench, but Vlad’s there first. He catches the intruder’s trigger arm and twists, firing one muffled round. Blood mists the frigid air as the body drops at my feet. Steam curls from the wound, the metallic tang of gunfire burning my throat.
Our eyes lock over the corpse. He frisks the man, pocketing the radio and phone.
“All clear for now. Are you OK?”
“I think so.”
There’s blood spatter on his cheek. I try to wipe it away with my thumb, but my hand trembles so badly it smears instead of cleans.He kills with the ease I type spreadsheets,I think to myself, dizzy with fear and adrenaline.
He notices the tremor and gently encloses my wrist with his hand. Snowflakes settle on his lashes. He’s stoic, unblinking.
I’m scared. Scared of Volkov’s relentless hunger for revenge; scared of a war Vlad seems born to wage; scared of carrying a child whose father toggles between tenderness and lethal reflex like flipping a switch. I think I love him—God, IknowI do—but the contrast is terrifying.
His earpiece crackles. Dmitri’s voice slices through static. “Two SUVs inbound west drive—thirty seconds.”
Vlad grabs my hand. “Extraction in two minutes. We need to move.”
He takes my hand and we break from the tunnel. Snow falls harder, muting the world. The bodies blur into vague mounds, red soaking outward like spilled ink. Dark silhouettes converge through the snowfall—Angeloff men or more hunters, I can’t tell.
I tighten my grip on Vlad’s hand and run.
Dmitri’s SUV fishtails onto the 79th Street traverse.Headlights slice through the trees. The rear door swings open mid-skid as Dmitri leans out of the driver’s side window, Glock sweeping.
“Inside, inside!”
Vlad half-pushes, half-throws me onto the leather seat, then dives in after. Dmitri slams the door and punches the gas. Tires spin on packed snow and we rocket east.
We drive approximately thirty yards before another shooter steps from behind a lamppost—sub-gun raised, muzzle flashes strobing. The side mirror explodes and I yelp. Vlad yanks me down, braces his gun on the armrest, and pops three rounds through the spider-webbed windshield. The shooter jerks back, red mist blooming. Dmitri floors it, the SUV fishtailing again but finding traction, sending a tail of slush flying behind us.
The interior of the SUV smells like gun powder and leather. My heart’s battering against my ribs. I run shaking hands over Vlad’s torso, checking for holes. Only blood, and none of it his.
“You’re shaking,” he says, thumb rubbing my knuckles.
