I didn't look back. Just kept moving.
"NIKOLAI!"
Kostya's voice, somewhere behind me. Then he was there, massive and deadly, moving through the chaos like violence personified. His Glock was in a two-handed grip, firing controlled shots at Belyaev soldiers who'd noticed my escape attempt.
Two soldiers went down. Three more moved to replace them.
"What are you doing?" Kostya roared. Not asking. Demanding explanation while laying down covering fire, because that was my brother—furious and loyal in equal measure.
"Getting her out!" I shouted back.
"You should have left her!"
"Couldn't!"
He swore. Something long and creative in Russian. But he didn't argue further. Just moved with me, covering my six, shooting anyone who tried to stop us.
Maks appeared from somewhere in the smoke. My youngest brother looked wrong without his tablet, without his usual polished composure. His suit jacket was torn. Blood on his face—his or someone else's, couldn't tell. But he had his gun out and his eyes were clear.
"East exit's blocked," he said fast. "Four soldiers. We need to go through them or find another way."
"Through," I said. Because I couldn't carry Sophie much longer. My shoulder was screaming. My ribs felt like someone had taken a hammer to them. We needed out now.
"On three," Kostya said. He moved ahead, Maks flanking him. "One—"
They didn't wait for three. Just charged.
The gunfight lasted maybe ten seconds. Felt like longer. Kostya took point, drawing fire, his massive frame absorbing damage that would have killed smaller men. Maks moved low and fast, shooting with precision that came from years of intelligence work teaching him exactly where to aim.
Four Belyaev soldiers. All four went down.
But Kostya took a round to his shoulder. I saw him stagger, saw the blood, saw him keep moving anyway because that was who he was—unstoppable even when he should be stopped.
"Move!" he barked.
I moved. Through the exit, into a concrete hallway that smelled like exhaust and old fear. Emergency lighting cast everything in sickly yellow. Sophie was still fighting me, weaker now, exhausted or giving up or just running out of fight.
"Almost there," I said. To her or to myself, didn't matter. "Almost safe."
The hallway opened into a parking lot. Cold night air hit my face like a gift. I sucked in breath, tasted city—garbage and exhaust and that particular New York smell that meant home.
Our car was where we'd left it. Black Mercedes, armored, windows bulletproof. Maks had the keys. He ran ahead, unlocked it, threw open the back door.
I stumbled toward it. My legs barely worked. Adrenaline was crashing, leaving exhaustion and pain in its wake.
Got Sophie into the backseat. She immediately scrambled away from me, pressing herself against the far door, hands up in defense even though she couldn't see through the hood.
"Drive," Kostya ordered Maks. Blood was running down his arm, soaking his shirt. He didn't seem to notice. Just got in the passenger seat, gun still in his good hand, watching for pursuit.
I climbed into the backseat beside Sophie. Pulled the door shut. Maks was already moving, tires squealing as we peeled out of the parking lot.
Gunfire behind us. Bullets sparking off the armored body, spiderwebbing the bulletproof glass. But we were moving.
We were out.
Chapter 4
Sophie
