The number women were supposed to call when they needed help. When they needed a way out. When they needed someone to believe them.
Jelena.
The name hits like a blade between ribs. Sharp. Immediate. Twisting.
Jelena, who let Ramiz in. Who gave him access. Who handed me over like I was nothing.
I trusted her. Believed in her. And she—
How could she do this? How could someone who understood what we were fighting against turn around and make an alliance with the very person we swore to destroy?
The loss sits heavy. Not just for Jelena. For the belief that we could trust each other. That shared trauma created unbreakable bonds.
I was wrong.
A gunshot.
The sound explodes through the small space, deafening. My ears ring, high-pitched whine drowning everything else. I duck instinctively, free hand flying up to cover my head even though the gesture is useless.
The door holds.
Another shot. Wood splinters near the lock. Cracks spiderweb across the surface, white lines against dark paint.
He's not going to stop.
The realization is cold as ice. The door is resistant, not impervious. Enough bullets and it will fail.
I'm standing here with a phone in my hand and nowhere to run.
The receiver trembles against my ear. Dial tone buzzes, insect-like and meaningless.
Think.
My brain kicks into overdrive, that cold clarity that surfaces under pressure. The same focus I use when planning operations.
I need to call them.
They're at the opera. They must know I'm missing by now. They have to know. Maksim would notice within minutes. Zakhar would have tracked the timeline. Alexei would feel the wrongness in his bones.
My training kicks in. What I've preached to dozens of women over the years. Always memorize a phone number in case you need to ditch your mobile. Always have a backup plan. Always prepare for the worst-case scenario.
Ramiz has stopped shooting.
I can hear him on the other side of the door. Breathing. Waiting. Planning his next move like this is a game and I'm the prize.
I dial the number I know by heart.
The line rings.
Please.
"Speak." Zakhar's clipped voice.
Another gunshot. The door shudders in its frame. Wood groans.
"Zakhar?" My voice doesn't sound like mine. Too raw. Too desperate.
"Victoria?" The shift is immediate. His voice rough with recognition and alarm. "Where are you?"
