“My freedom. A plane. Safe passage to the Caymans for Christian and me. No tails. No retaliation.”
“You want all of that,” Yuri says flatly, “in exchange for the woman you kidnapped.”
Christian chuckles from the shadows. “The woman carrying your children. It is a compelling negotiation, no?”
Yuri doesn’t flinch. “You’re already dead, Christian. You just don’t know it yet.”
Christian smiles. “Ah. There’s that Ivanov charm.”
Spalding steps forward, impatient. “This doesn’t have to end badly. We’re all businessmen. She’s leverage. Nothing more.”
I scream into the gag, jerking forward. They’re talking about me like I’m property.
Spalding barely spares me a glance. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re worth more to them alive. For now.”
Yuri’s jaw tightens. I twist my head, pushing my tongue hard against the gag until it slips. The cloth falls, wet and clumsy, to my chin.
“It’s a trap!” I shout. “This whole thing?—”
Yuri calmly lifts a hand. “We know.”
I blink. For a second, I’m disoriented.
And then, just beyond the far wall, comes the sound of something exploding.
Everything erupts.
Glass shatters above. Smoke pours in. The sound of boots on metal. Voices shouting.
The Ivanovs are here.
And they brought hell with them.
CHAPTER 39
ASTRID
Glass explodes above me.
The first flash-bang detonates with a blinding white pulse, a crack of sound so violent it shudders through my bones. My body jerks, breath ripped from my chest as smoke pours into the warehouse in rolling clouds, swallowing everything in shades of grey and firelight.
Then come the screams.
Automatic gunfire bursts in violent rhythm, deafening and close. Men are shouting in Spanish and in Russian, screaming orders or just screaming, as boots thunder across concrete.
I throw myself sideways off the chair, hitting the concrete floor hard, the metal cuffs biting into my wrists. My legs are still bound, but I manage to twist my body, curling into myself, arms over my belly.
The room is a complete war zone.
I can’t see five feet in front of me. Violence flashes like strobe lights as muzzle fire lights up faces. A man near me collapseswith a hole through his throat, blood painting the concrete. Another man goes down screaming, clutching his leg.
And still the gunfire doesn’t stop.
But I recognize the pattern. The coordination. These aren’t thugs firing blind. They’re trained.
And Alexei is with them.These are Alexei’s men and they move like they were born to fight. No wasted motion.
Two flank the left side wall, using the cover of crates to clear a path. One drops from the catwalk above like a specter, silent as death, landing behind two of De la Rosa’s guards and shooting them in the back of the head before they even realize he’s there.
