Fifty seconds this time. A full fifty seconds of pain so intense I can’t think, can’t breathe, can only endure.
When it passes, I’m crying. Not from fear anymore. From pain. From exhaustion. From the absolute terror of giving birth alone in this filthy warehouse while my baby’s father searches a city that’s on fire.
I know about the fires. Dmitri’s men talk about it, their voices angry and scared. About how Volkov is burning everything. About how twelve operations are gone, how over fifty men are dead, how the city is turning into a war zone.
Ledger is tearing Las Vegas apart, looking for me.
But will he find me in time?
“Please,” I whisper to the darkness, to God, to anyone who might be listening. “Please let him find us. Please don’t let our baby be born here. Please?—”
Gunfire erupts outside, right outside the warehouse. Automatic weapons, the rapid pop-pop-pop of multiple guns firing at once.
Men are shouting. Running. More gunfire, closer now.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Is it Ledger? Has he found me?
Or is it rival families, federal agents, or someone else entirely, coming to finish what Dmitri started?
The warehouse door slams open. Heavy boots on concrete, multiple sets running toward the back of the building where Dmitri keeps his men.
An explosion rocks the building. The force of it shakes the walls, sends dust raining down from the rafters. I curl around my stomach instinctively, trying to protect the baby from debris.
More gunfire. Shouting in Russian. Someone screaming.
Another contraction hits. This one is different. Sharper. Lower. And with it comes a rush of warmth between my legs that soaks through my dress and pools on the concrete beneath me.
My water just broke.
“No no no.” I’m gasping now, crying, the contraction still holding me in its grip while wetness spreads across the floor. “Not now. Please not now.”
The door explodes inward. Wood splinters. Metal screams.
And then I see him.
Ledger.
He’s covered in soot and blood, gun in hand, moving through the doorway like death incarnate. His eyes scan the room, find me on the floor, and something in his expression breaks.
“Savannah.”
He runs to me, dropping to his knees beside me. His hands are on my face, checking for injuries, looking at the zip ties cutting into my wrists.
“I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
“Ledger—” Another contraction hits, cutting off my words. My body arches, stomach going rigid.
He sees it. Sees the wetness pooling beneath me. “No.” His face goes white. “No, it’s too early. You can’t?—”
“Water broke,” I manage to gasp out between contractions. “Baby’s coming. Can’t stop it.”
He looks toward the door where gunfire still echoes, then back at me. His jaw tightens with a decision I can see forming.
“Marcus!” he shouts. “Get the nurse in here. Now!”
A woman appears in the doorway seconds later. Wearing jeans and a jacket, but carrying a medical bag. She takes one look at me and moves fast.
“How far apart are the contractions?” she asks, kneeling on my other side.
