There’s another beat of silence, then a burst of sharp, fast, vicious, commanding in Russian. He’s yelling orders at someone, or multiple someones, and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“We are on it,” he says. “I’ll call or text as soon as we have information. Go to your friend’s. Do not leave her side. Do you have a weapon?”
“I… don’t.” I glance around the car as a gun might magically appear in the cup holder.
“Lock the doors. Do not leave the apartment. Put me on speed dial in case someone realizes the mistake and comes back.”
“Got it,” I grit out. “Thank you.”
The call ends.
And suddenly there’s nothing but the groaning of my Honda’s engine struggling under my foot.
The sound is weak.
It pisses me off.
My thoughts race even faster, violent, frantic, and useless.
I’m a hockey player—a good one. But I’m not a soldier. I’m not trained for this shit. I don’t have the tools to fix it.
My jaw clenches so tightly it aches.
My chest feels like it’s going to split open from fury, from fear, from the knowledge that Emma trusted me enough to let me back in, and I still failed to keep her family safe.
I slam my fists into the steering wheel.
The entire car jerks. Pain shoots up my arm, and the dash cracks under the force, splintering right down the middle.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing I can do feels like enough.
I let out a raw, broken, furious scream until my throat burns and my vision blurs.
I want to burn the Browning family off the map. I want to tear their entire operation apart with my bare hands. I want to hurt the people who took them. I want them to feel every ounce of fear Emma felt when she found her apartment empty.
I want blood.
But the truth slams into me just as fast as my fists hit the wheel:
Right now, all I can do is get to Emma.
And pray that Nik gets to them before I completely lose my mind.
By the timeI pull up to Emma’s building, I’m vibrating.
My heart’s pounding so hard I’m lightheaded.
My jaw aches from clenching it.
Every instinct in me is screaming to turn the car around, find the Brownings, rip the door off its hinges, and kill every single one of those bastards.
But Emma needs me.
Of course, there’s no fucking parking. I curse blue streak, swing into a lot two blocks away, and sprint back through the wind—down the sidewalk, up the stairs, down the hall.
The door flies open the second I knock.
