It's harder than doing my own. My fingers are slippery with blood, and I can't get the same leverage. But I keep trying, sawing the plastic against the edge of the metal beam, looking for any weakness.
"Why are you helping me?" Svetlana asks quietly.
"Because we're in this together. Because Sergei wants us to be enemies, and I'm not going to give him that." I feel the zip tie start to give. "I’m not just going to leave you to die. This isn’t your fault any more than it’s mine.”
"I don't even know you."
“That doesn’t matter.” I look at her as I push the zip tie tighter against a ragged edge of metal. “I couldn’t just leave anyone here who didn’t deserve it. Right now, , we're all each other has."
Svetlana gasps as one of her hands comes free. "Thank you," she whispers.
"Don't thank me yet. We still need to?—"
The sound of engines cuts me off—multiple vehicles, getting closer. Doors slamming. Voices shouting orders.
Svetlana and I freeze, our eyes meeting. Her fear mirrors my own, and I see the question we're both thinking reflected in her face.
Is it rescue? Or is it death?
29
ILYA
The man is crying now, blood and tears mixing on his face, dripping onto the concrete floor of the basement. He was our source, and now he’s a dead man who happens to still be breathing.
It’s his fault Sergei has Mara. And that, I won’t forgive, even if he tries to redeem himself by giving me the information I need.
Right now, he’s an outlet for my violence, andfuck, I need it.
I hit him again, my knuckles splitting open against his teeth. The pain grounds me, keeps me from coming apart completely. If I allow myself to feel the full weight of what's happened, I'll lose what's left of my sanity.
The feeling rattles through my body, sending a throb of satisfaction through me. I want this man dead. I want Mara here. I want to sink myself into her with blood still on my knuckles so I can feel the heat of her around me and know that she’s alive, that she’s still mine.
"Please," the man gasps, spitting blood. "Please, I don't know anything?—"
"You're lying." My voice is calm, almost conversational. Kazimir stands in the corner, watching, ready to help if I needit. But we both know I won't stop until I have what I need. "You know where Sergei took her. You know where he's holding her."
"I swear, I don't?—"
I grab the pliers from the table beside me. The man’s eyes go wide, and he starts struggling against the restraints, but Dmitri's replacement—a man named Alexei—holds him steady.
"You have ten fingers," I say, examining the pliers. "We'll start with those. Then toes. Then I'll get creative." I meet his eyes, and I let him see everything in my gaze: the rage and desperation, the absolute certainty that I will do whatever it takes. "How many do you think you'll have left before you tell me what I want to know?"
“Please—”
I grab the man’s left hand, forcing his fingers straight, and position the pliers around his pinky finger.
"Wait!" he screams. "Wait, wait, please?—"
"Where is she?"
"The warehouse! The old shipping warehouse, in Chelsea!" The words tumble out in a rush, desperate and broken. "Sergei's using it as a staging area. He has them there, both of them, he's going to?—"
"Going to what?" I tighten the pliers, just enough to make him feel it.
"Make you choose! He's going to make you choose which one lives, broadcast it to everyone, show them that you're weak—" The man is sobbing now, all pretense of loyalty gone. "Please, that's all I know, I swear on my mother's grave?—"
Confusion burns through my anger. “Choose betweenwho?” I snarl, and he stares up at me with frightened eyes.
