“What are you talking about?” I press.
He winces as another spasm of pain hits. When it passes, he licks blood from his lip and lets his head rest more heavily against the crate. “You think this was just me,” he murmurs. “You think Ihad the resources to snatch a girl from under your nose and hold her this long on my own.”
“You had help,” I acknowledge. “You had Sokolov backing. We figured that part out a while ago.”
He grins, teeth red. “Then you know the real fun has not even started.”
I grab his jacket collar and haul him forward an inch, ignoring the way my own arm protests. “Who is calling the shots?”
He meets my eyes, and for a second, the smirk falls away. There is pity there instead, which makes my stomach turn.
“You really do not know,” he whispers. “No one has told you that Isaak was never as clever as he thought.”
My grip tightens. “Speak.”
“The head of the Sokolov family will not give up until you are on your knees,” he breathes. “He has waited years for this. You killed me tonight, but you did exactly what he wanted.”
Cold moves through me in a slow, creeping wave. “Who?” I grind out. “Give me a name.”
He laughs again, but the sound breaks into a cough, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. “Ask the man she calls family,” he chokes out.
My mind races through names and faces, but he gives no more. His eyes start to lose focus, his pupils blown wide. His hand, the one pressing against his chest, slackens.
I pull him closer, ignoring the blood that soaks into my vest. “Where is Hope?” I demand, each word pushed out like a threat and a plea at once. “You owe her that much.”
He gives a small, broken smile that does not reach his eyes. “I do not owe anyone a goddamn thing,” he rasps. “And neither does he.”
His head lolls, his breath shuddering once more, then stopping. The tension drains from his body, leaving dead weight in my hands.
For a long moment, the battle noise recedes at the edges of my awareness, like a tide pulling back. All I hear is the drum of my own pulse in my ears and the faint hum of a dying light overhead.
Vega leans in, his nose brushing Ray’s cheek. The dog sniffs once, then looks up at me, as if confirming what I already know. He is gone.
I let go of his jacket. His body slumps back against the crate, his eyes staring at nothing. Blood pools on the concrete, spreading in a slow, widening halo that soaks into the cracks. Around us, the last echoes of the gunshot fade.
Kolya calls out from somewhere behind me, “Clear.”
Albert’s voice follows. “We have two alive, tied them up. Rest are down.”
Misha appears at the end of the aisle, gun still in his hand, breathing a little harder than usual. He takes in the scene with one sweep of his gaze, then focuses on my arm.
“You are hit,” he observes.
“Just a graze,” I answer. “I have had worse.”
He approaches, his eyes dropping to Ray’s body. “Did he talk.”
“He talked,” I mutter. I feel like my own voice comes from far away. “Just not about what matters.”
“No location,” Misha confirms grimly. “No clue where Hope is.”
“Nothing that helps us tonight.” I push myself to my feet, the movement sending a flare of pain through my arm and a dull throb across my shoulders. Vega rises with me, keeping close. I rest a hand on his head, my fingers digging into the fur between his ears.
“What did he give you?” Misha asks.
I meet his gaze. “He made it clear he was not the one in charge,” I answer. “He called the Sokolovpakhanthe real architect of this. He told me the man will not stop until we are on our knees. Then he told me to ask the man Sage calls family.”
Misha’s brows pull together. “That could be a ploy.”
