I heard Yelena's voice at some point—raised, defiant, speaking rapid Greek. Then a man's voice, harsh and demanding. A sound that might have been a slap. A cry of pain.
I pressed my fist against my mouth to keep from screaming.
Stay hidden, she'd said.No matter what you hear.
The footsteps came closer. I could hear them in the room beyond my hiding place—boots on hardwood, shelves being shoved aside, supplies crashing to the floor. Someone said something in Armenian, and another man laughed.
They were right there. Inches away from where I crouched, barely breathing, my heart hammering so loud I was sure they must hear it.
The footsteps paused. I heard breathing—heavy, close. The scrape of a hand along the wall.
Then a shout from somewhere else in the house. The footsteps moved away. A door slammed.
I stayed frozen, not daring to move, not daring to believe they'd gone.
Minutes passed. Or hours. I couldn't tell. The sounds of fighting faded to occasional bursts, then to silence. My legs cramped. My back ached. The baby—was the baby okay? I pressed my hand harder against my stomach, as if I could protect it with the pressure of my palm.
Hold on, I thought.Just hold on.
I couldn't stay there forever.
The thought crystallized slowly, pushing through the fog of fear. They were searching the house systematically. They'd already been in this room once. Eventually, they'd come back. Eventually, they'd find the hidden panel.
And even if they didn't—how long could I hide here? Hours? Days? Vasily was thousands of miles away. Help might not come for—
I cut off the thought. It didn't matter. I couldn't just cower in the dark and wait to be found like a rabbit in a trap.
The safe room. If I could get to the safe room, I could lock myself in. Reinforced walls, steel door—Yelena had said it. Supplies for days. Communications equipment. A way to call for help.
I just had to get there.
Slowly, carefully, I pushed against the hidden panel. It swung open without a sound, revealing the wrecked storage room beyond. Shelves overturned, linens scattered across the floor, the door hanging open.
I listened. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices. Just the distant crackle of fire and the pounding of my own pulse.
I slipped out of the hiding space and crept toward the door.
The hallway was worse than I'd expected.
Bullet holes pocked the walls. A painting had fallen, its frame shattered. And there—sprawled at the end of the corridor—
A body. One of the guards. I recognized him—Dmitri, the young one who'd always nodded politely when I passed. He lay face down in a spreading pool of red, his eyes open and staring at nothing.
I pressed my hand over my mouth and forced myself to keep moving.
The route to the safe room was burned into my memory from the tour Vasily had given me during my first week. Down this hallway, left at the portrait gallery, through the sitting room, down the stairs. I moved as quietly as I could, stepping over debris, freezing at every sound.
Another body in the portrait gallery—one of Pankratov's men this time, his face a ruin of blood and bone. I stepped around him, not looking, not letting myself think about what I was seeing.
The sitting room was empty, furniture overturned, but no bodies. I was almost to the stairs. Almost safe.
I didn't see him until it was too late.
He stepped out of the shadows beside the fireplace—a big man, broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. His eyes found me, and his lips curved into a smile that made my blood freeze.
"There you are," he said, his English heavily accented. "We've been looking for you."
I ran.
