"How many?" I shout over the gunfire.
"At least six that I can see. Maybe more." The SUV swerves hard, trying to avoid the other vehicle attempting to force us off the road. "Hannah, I need you to shoot. Can you do that?"
My brain is screaming at me that none of this is right. I don't shoot at people trying to kill me.
Except apparently, now I do.
I pop up just enough to see through the shattered window. A man in the SUV beside us is aiming at Alexei, his face twisted with concentration. I don't think. Don't hesitate. Just squeeze the trigger the way Dante taught me.
The recoil kicks against my palms, and the man jerks backward, clutching his shoulder. Not a kill shot—I don't think I could handle that—but enough to make him drop his weapon.
"Good!" Alexei yells. "Keep them back!"
I fire again, and again, each shot feeling more surreal than the last. This is really happening. People are really trying to kill us.
The thought of losing the baby makes something fierce and primal rise up inside me. I'm not going to die here. I'm not goingto let these faceless attackers take my future before I even get a chance to live it.
Another attacker appears at the broken window. I fire without thinking. He ducks back, cursing, and I feel a savage satisfaction at making him retreat.
Our SUV lurches as another vehicle rams us from behind. I'm thrown forward, my head connecting with the back of the seat hard enough to make stars explode across my vision. The stitches in my scalp pull painfully. I taste blood where I've bitten my tongue.
"Hannah!" Alexei's voice sounds distant. "Are you hit?"
"No. Just—keep driving."
But we're not driving anymore. We're spinning, the SUV losing traction as the driver tries to regain control. The world tilts sideways and then we’re rolling. I have just enough time to curl around my stomach protectively before we slam into something solid.
The impact is devastating. Metal screaming, glass shattering, the horrible sound of things breaking that shouldn't break. Then stillness, broken only by the hiss of escaping steam and the ringing in my ears.
I’m on the roof of the SUV.
"Alexei?" My voice sounds strange, muffled.
He groans from where he was thrown into the third-row seat. Blood runs down his face from a cut on his forehead, but he's moving.
Alive.
"I'm okay," he manages. "You?"
"I think so."
Our driver is very clearly dead. His body is at a grotesque angle and he’s staring at me. Staring but not seeing. I try not to panic at the sight.
The sound of men talking snaps us both to attention. Footsteps approaching, multiple sets, boots crunching on broken glass.
"Out of the vehicle," someone commands in accented English. "Now. Or we shoot through the doors."
Alexei meets my eyes. His expression is grim. Then he nods slightly—some silent communication I don't fully understand.
"Do what they say," he tells me quietly. "But stay behind me."
I nod.
He says something in Russian as he moves to the front of the SUV. He kicks at the shattered windshield. I see a gloved hand pull the window away and then Alexei is jerked out.
I pulled out of the SUV next. My legs nearly give out when I try to stand, but I force them to hold. The pistol is still clutched in my hand, and I haven't let go even though I know I should.
Six men surround us. These aren't the kind of criminals who hesitate or negotiate. These are killers.
