I gasp, chest burning as I try to breathe.
One of the bodies slams to the floor not three feet from my head, more blood slicking the concrete beside me. I flinch back, heart hammering against my ribs, but I stay down. There’s nowhere else to go.
Through the smoke, I catch a flicker of movement—Christian.
While everyone else is caught in the storm, he moves with eerie calm, a dark silhouette slipping toward the back exit flanked by two of his elite guards. He planned for this. He’s always two steps ahead. Even now, he moves like a man untouched by consequence.
He doesn’t look back. He disappears through the door, alive.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
The shooting fades to a series of final pops. Two more downed guards, a suppressed shot from above, and then, like a spell breaking, silence swells.
Over the ringing in my ears, I hear the shifting of boots, the clipped orders in Russian.
And then I see Yuri.
He walks through the smoke like a ghost, blood streaking his cheek, his coat flaring behind him. His eyes are dark. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t bark commands. He just moves, and his men move with him, like phantoms on strings. His knuckles are torn open.
His presence is enough to make the rest of the room shrink.
Behind him, Lev and Luk sweep in, picking off the last of De la Rosa’s men. Efficient. Ruthless.
It’s over in seconds.
My breathing slows. I’m shaking violently, but I’m alive.
From the far side of the room, a figure staggers out of the smoke.
Spalding is limping, dragging one leg behind him. Blood streaks his face, caking into the wrinkles around his mouth. He looks like a man who just clawed out of hell. His hair is wild, and his tattered shirt clings to him, darkened with sweat and blood.
There’s gun in his hand.
I’m not sure he knows what he’s doing. His eyes are manic. His teeth bared.
He’s heading straight for me.
I twist, trying to push myself further behind the chair, but my legs are still bound. I can’t crawl. Can’t run. The best I can do is put my hands over my stomach and hope to God that someone,anyone, sees him in time.
He raises the pistol. My world narrows to that barrel. That trembling hand. The wild look in his eyes.
Do something,my mind screams.Fight. Move. Yell.
But I can’t speak, can’t move.
He takes a step forward.
The gun rises, inches from my face.
Spalding’s wild eyes lock on mine, and I can almost feel the moment he decides to end my life. No reasoning. No leverage. Just rage. One final attempt at control.
I brace myself for the end.
POP, POP.
The shots rip through the air, louder than thunder.
Spalding screams and drops like a marionette with its strings cut, a sharp, ragged cry tearing from his throat as two bullets slam into his side and shoulder in quick succession. Blood spatters the concrete as he crumples sideways, his momentum sending him sprawling across the floor.
