His jaw tightens. "I've spent weeks planning this. Turning your man, mapping your defenses, waiting for the perfect moment. All to show you what it feels like to have something taken from you."
"And now?"
"Now?" He laughs again, but there's no humor in it. "Now I'm going to kill you. And then I'm going to find her again. And this time, there won't be anyone left to save her."
We stand there, weapons aimed at each other, the fire roaring around us.
"You should have stayed in Los Angeles," I say. "You should have let it go."
"I couldn't. You took what was mine."
"She was never yours. She was never anyone's property." I tighten my grip on my weapon. "That's the part you never understood."
"Spare me the sentiment." His finger tightens on the trigger. "You bought her at an auction. Don't pretend you're any better than me."
"Maybe I'm not. But I'm the one who's going to walk away from this."
He fires.
I'm already moving.
The bullet grazes my shoulder—a line of fire across my skin—but I don't stop. I close the distance between us in three strides, knock his weapon aside, drive my knife into his gut.
He gasps, his eyes going wide, his hands clutching at my arms.
"That's for Bianca," I say.
I twist the knife, and he screams.
"That's for my men."
I pull the blade free and drive it in again, higher this time, between his ribs.
"And this—" I lean close, my lips against his ear. "This is for thinking you could take what's mine."
I drag the knife across his throat.
Blood sprays across my face, hot and copper-scented. Sergei makes a gurgling sound, his hands clutching uselessly at his ruined neck. He falls to his knees, then forward, face-first into the dirt.
I stand over his body, breathing hard, the knife dripping in my hand.
It's done.
***
I find Bianca at the extraction point.
She's sitting in the back of one of our vehicles, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a medic checking her injuries. When she sees me, she pushes past him and runs.
I catch her, hold her, bury my face in her hair.
"Is he—"
"He's dead."
She pulls back to look at my face—at the blood splattered across my skin, the wound on my shoulder, the exhaustion in my eyes.
"You're hurt."
