"What's happening? Who's—"
"No time. Come."
She dragged me into the hallway, moving faster than I'd thought possible for a woman her age. The sounds offighting were closer now—gunfire somewhere in the house, glass breaking, a man's scream cut abruptly short.
"The safe room," Yelena said, half to herself. "Mr. Chernov showed you, yes? Reinforced walls, steel door. You'll be protected there until—"
Another explosion, closer this time. The floor shook beneath our feet. Yelena stumbled, and I caught her arm, keeping us both upright.
We rounded a corner and nearly collided with Kirill.
He was bleeding from a gash on his forehead, his suit jacket torn, a gun in each hand. When he saw us, something like relief flickered across his face.
"Mrs. Chernov. Thank God." He fell into step beside us, checking behind us as we moved. "The north perimeter's been breached. At least twenty men, maybe more. They came by boat—we didn't see them until they were on the shore."
"How?" The word came out strangled. "How did they find us?"
"The leak. Lucas." Kirill's jaw tightened. "He gave them everything. They knew our patrol schedules, our blind spots. They knew exactly where to hit."
We reached the stairs that led down to the safe room. Kirill went first, gun raised, checking the shadows. Yelena kept her hand on my back, urging me forward.
We were halfway down when the gunfire erupted below us.
Kirill shoved me back, firing into the darkness. Muzzle flashes lit the stairwell—one, two, three. A man cried out. Another answered with a spray of bullets that sent chips of stone flying from the walls.
"Back!" Kirill shouted. "Go back—I'll hold them!"
Yelena pulled me up the stairs, her grip surprisingly strong. I caught one last glimpse of Kirill before we turned the corner—standing his ground, firing methodically, a wall between us and the men, trying to kill us.
Then we were running again, and I couldn't see anything but the hallway ahead and the doors flashing past.
"The east wing," Yelena gasped. "There's a closet—hidden panel—Mr. Chernov had it built for emergencies—"
We turned another corner, and she shoved me through a doorway into what looked like a storage room. Shelves of linens, cleaning supplies, the smell of lavender and bleach. She pushed past me to a section of wall that looked like all the others and pressed something I couldn't see.
A panel swung open, revealing a space barely large enough for one person.
"Inside," she said. "Stay hidden. Don't make a sound, no matter what you hear."
"What about you?"
"I'll lead them away. Make them think you went the other direction." She pushed me toward the opening. "Please, Mrs. Chernov. For the baby."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to refuse to hide while she put herself in danger for me. But her eyes were fierce, determined, and I knew she wouldn't listen.
I squeezed into the hidden space, my back against cold stone, my knees drawn up to make myself as small as possible. Yelena pressed her hand briefly to my cheek.
"He'll come," she said. "Mr. Chernov will come. Just stay alive until he does."
Then she closed the panel, and I was alone in the dark.
Time stopped meaning anything.
I crouched in that tiny space, my hand pressed to my stomach, and listened to the sounds of violence tear through the house I'd started to think of as home.
Gunfire. Shouting. The crash of furniture being overturned, doors being kicked in. Men calling to each other in Armenian—I recognized the cadence now, even if I couldn't understand the words. They were searching. Room by room, methodically, professionally.
Looking for me.
