I let him go three steps before I shoot him in the back of the head.
Silence.
I stand in the corridor, breathing hard, surrounded by bodies. Three more men dead by my hands. Three more lives ended because they chose to stand between me and what's mine.
I feel nothing. Not satisfaction, not regret. Just cold purpose.
Bianca.
I start checking doors.
The first cell is empty. Bare concrete, a drain in the floor, nothing else.
I move to the second. Also empty.
The third holds a man—beaten, unconscious or dead, I can't tell. Not Bianca. I keep moving.
Fourth cell. Empty.
Fifth. A woman, but older, gray-haired, curled in the corner. She flinches when the door opens, raises her hands to shield her face. Not Bianca.
"Someone will come for you," I tell her. "Stay here."
She doesn't respond. I don't have time to comfort her.
Sixth cell. Empty.
Seventh. A body—male, long dead by the smell. I close the door and move on.
The corridor seems endless, each door a fresh wave of hope and disappointment. My heart pounds harder with every cell I check, every face that isn't hers. What if Lenkov lied? What if she's not here? What if Sergei moved her, killed her, what if I'm too late—
Eighth cell. Empty.
Ninth. Empty.
Tenth.
The door is heavier than the others—reinforced steel, with a solid deadbolt on the outside. I throw back the bolt and push the door open.
She's there.
Huddled against the far wall, her hands bound behind her, a chain running from her wrist to a bolt in the concrete. Her face is bruised, her lip split, dried blood crusted on her chin. She's pale, trembling, her clothes torn and dirty.
But her eyes—her eyes are alive. Blazing with fear and hope and something fierce that makes my chest ache.
"Misha." My name comes out broken, half sob, half prayer.
I cross the cell in two strides and drop to my knees beside her. My hands find her face, tilting it toward the light, checking for damage. The bruises are bad, but superficial. Her pupils are equal, reactive. She's coherent, conscious, alive.
Alive.
"Are you hurt?" My voice sounds strange—rough, cracked. "Did they—"
"I'm okay." Tears are spilling down her cheeks, but she's smiling. "I'm okay. You found me."
"I'll always find you."
I pull the knife from my thigh and cut through the zip ties binding her wrists. The plastic falls away, revealing raw, bloody skin beneath—she's been fighting against the restraints, trying to free herself. Of course she has. She's never stopped fighting.
