One of them shouts in Russian as I slip around the wall and dive under the truck. Gravel grinds into my knees and shins, but I don’t stop.
Metal scratches at me—my cheeks, my ears, my back—as I scramble on top of a tire axle and hold tight.
Freeze.
Don’t breathe.
One man sprints past me, cursing under his breath.
Russian sounds so much angrier than English.
The metal bar beneath me is like an icicle. Digging into my arms, my thighs. Oil and gas cover my palms, coating me in the scent of road and travel.
I breathe slowly. Quietly.
My pulse pounds in my wrist and ear and squeezes my chest.
I have never been so insanely terrified in my life.
But I’m fine. I’m fine.
I’ll survive this.
A thick, strong hand clasps my ankle and drags me off the axle and down through the gravel.
Scowl pulls me out from beneath the truck.
I claw at the ground, hoping—praying—I can catch myself on something.
But there’s nothing to grab.
This beast of a man flips me onto my back and pins me in place, all his weight on my stomach. I can’t even scream and struggle to breathe.
I know Suit wants me alive—for now—but I’m not convinced this guy got that message.
He grips my arms with a nasty scowl, his spittle splattering my face. “Keep still, bitch!”
I kick blindly and ineffectively until a loudpopechoes through the industrial yard.
We both freeze.
A gunshot.
Am I hit?
Scowl climbs off of me. I suck in a desperate mouthful of air and roll away, pushing up onto my knees as I cough.
Ten feet away, Russian Number One collapses to his knees. A red stain spreads over his shirt from his heart before he falls face-first to the gravel.
Scowl yanks a gun from his waist, spinning wildly while searching for the threat.
After anotherpop, his gun flies right out of his hand, clanking against the gold wall before falling.
Scowl screams.
I fight down bile.
A bullet’s blown away half the man’s hand.
