If he only knew the Weapon is screaming inside, begging to be let loose, to survive like she always does. But I lock her down with memories of my father's last kiss goodbye, of dozens of families destroyed because of my silence.
I close my eyes and wait for whatever comes next.
Gunfire.
Distant at first, like fireworks or a car backfiring. Then closer, the sharp crack of automatic weapons making my ears ring. Then shouting in Russian, screaming, the sound of bodies hitting concrete.
The guards snap to attention, phones forgotten. Radio chatter erupts, panicked, confused. Even through the ringing in my ears, I make out fragments.
"What the fuck—"
"We're under attack! East entrance is—"
"How many?"
"Dozens! They're coming through—"
The radio cuts to static. Guard Three has his gun out, aimed at the door. The other two scramble for positions, suddenly professional. The air tastes like metal and fear now, adrenaline sharp on my tongue.
I know. Even before the door explodes inward, wood splintering like matchsticks, I know who's coming. The wanting rises without permission—heat flooding my chest, breath catching.
Alexei.
He comes through the destroyed doorway like something biblical, like divine violence given form. I've never seen him like this. White shirt soaked dark with blood that isn't his, gun in each hand, face completely blank. Not angry. Not desperate. Just empty of everything except purpose.
The sight of him, terrible and beautiful in his violence, makes something crack in my chest despite my numbness.
Guard Two drops first. Single shot, center mass, didn't even get his safety off. The sound makes my ears ring worse, everything going muffled like being underwater.
Guard One manages to draw his knife. Alexei shoots him in the shoulder, spinning him around, then steps close and snaps his neck with his free hand. The crack echoes off concrete, and the Weapon notes the move with professional appreciation even as the woman flinches.
Guard Three actually puts up a fight. Gets two shots off that miss by inches, concrete chips flying. One cuts my cheek, warm blood mixing with the cold. Alexei closes the distance, and they grapple, the guard's training against Alexei's fury.
He smells like gunpowder when they crash past my chair, and beneath it, impossibly, that amber-and-smoke cologne that makes my body remember things it shouldn't. Not now, not here, not when he's killing for a woman who doesn't deserve it.
It ends with Alexei's hands around the guard's throat, squeezing until something breaks. The guard drops, twitching.
More men flood in behind him. His men, moving in formation, shooting anything that moves. The warehouse fills with gunfire and screaming. Someone's crying, begging in Russian. The words flow over me. Pleas for mercy, promises of loyalty, offers of information. Alexei already knows I understand Russian. No point in pretending anymore.
I don't flinch. Don't duck. The Weapon wants me to move, find cover, but I sit perfectly still while war explodes around me. A bullet clips the concrete two feet away. Another whistles past my ear. The heat of it, the displaced air, makes my hair move.
Part of me hopes the next one finds me. Solves the problem. Ends this.
"STOP!"
Kaz's voice cuts through the chaos from above. He's on the catwalk, gun aimed directly at my head.
Everything freezes.
"One more step and I put a bullet in her head!"
Alexei looks up at his cousin. Blood drips from his hands onto concrete. Other men's blood, spilled for me. His chest heaves but his voice comes out steady, almost conversational. The calm is more terrifying than rage would be.
"You won't."
"Try me."
"If you were going to shoot her, you'd have done it already." Alexei takes a step forward. The gun in Kaz's hand trembles slightly. "You wanted a tribunal. A show. You wanted me to watch her die."
