No. Not now. It’s too soon. It’s not my time. I’m not done. I’m?—
I closed my eyes and fought the dizziness from the combination of panic and lack of oxygen.
Please. Dear God, please, don’t let me die. I can’t die yet. I’m not ready. Please!
“What room is he in?” He pushed me against the wall harder, increasing the pressure at my throat. “What fucking room is Sergei Orlov in?” Jamming the gun against my head more, he leaned in to snarl, “Because that motherfucker isn’t going to live past his surgery.”
Please, please don’t kill me!
As quickly as this man snuck up to ambush me and render me defenseless, he suffered the same fate.
Someone else noticed us.
Someone nearby ran fast with a deliberate aim to knock this man away.
I dropped, coughing and gasping for air. The raw ache in my throat and lungs seared too hot and awful for me to react tothe fall. My knees banged against the pavement. My free hand slapped down on the gritty texture of the surface, skinning my palm.
As I set my fingers on my throat and rubbed the tender flesh that was bruised, I sluggishly and jerkily lifted my head. On my hands and knees, I was at a child’s eye view of Mikhail as he tackled the Italian thug.
They grunted and growled, fighting like animals, but all I could focus on was that he was here.
After damning him for teasing me and toying with me, after loathing him for the implied reliance he’d put on me as if I’d behisdoctor off the record for his Mafia men, he was here.
Right when I needed someone the most. Right when I neededhim. Because no member of the hospital security team would move with that ruthless speed and power, punching this man and slamming his head to the pavement to disarm him.
He was the one to come and save me.
Mikhail Orlov. This Mafia boss was here to rescue me.
“Fuck you,” the man growled, straining to crane his neck and seek me out as Mikhail pinned him down. In the struggle, he turned his hand to aim his gun at me again.
No!
I dropped, flattening to the pavement as the shot went off.
He’d fired at me.
He’d tried to kill me.
Shaking from the blast, I didn’t dare look up. Before I could try to, another shot was fired. Muffled, but still potent, a second bullet was spent.
“Claire.” Mikhail’s voice was rough and steady. “Claire. Are you hit?”
I trembled, unable to speak, unable to move and too terrified to even try to run.
Which way would I go? How could I get out of this mess? I wasn’t supposed to be involved but now…
“Claire.” Mikhail stood. I heard his footsteps. He was speaking too calmly with a dangerous threat so near. It had to mean he’d shot him. He’d killed him after I was almost shot.
His hands grabbed my upper arms. With a mixture of gentle urging and impatient necessity, he picked me up from the garage floor.
“Claire!” He raised me enough so he could duck down and peer at me, locking his worried gaze on me. Time moved as if I were in a haze under the spell of being stunned. All I could do was breathe, sucking in desperate pulls of air. All I could feel was his strong hold. His anger was palpable as he encouraged me to stand. Shaking and shivering, as a physical shock kicked in, I glanced past him and saw my attacker with one red hole between his eyes.
Dead.
Mikhail had killed him—for me.
I closed my eyes, horrified at the gore of violence so up close.
