It doesn't matter. I'll kill every single one of them.
We descend from the second floor to the ground level, then find what we're looking for: another stairwell, this one leading down. The door is newer than the rest of the building, reinforced steel with a heavy lock.
Of course. They've taken her underground, just like before. Just like that cell in Russia where I'd found her the first time, broken and terrified.
Ilya examines the lock, then looks at one of his men. "Breaching charge. A small one."
The man pulls out a strip of plastic explosive, molding it around the lock mechanism. We all step back, turning away. The explosion is muffled but still loud enough to echo through the building. The door sags on its hinges, the lock blown apart.
So much for stealth.
Ilya kicks the door open, and we pour through into the stairwell. The stairs descend into darkness, concrete walls pressing in on both sides. Ilya pulls out a flashlight, keeping it low. The beam catches on water stains, graffiti, and then a door at the bottom.
Behind that door, I can hear voices.
My entire body goes rigid. Every instinct screams at me to charge down those stairs, to kick that door open, to paint the walls with the blood of anyone who's touched her.
Ilya's hand on my shoulder stops me. He leans close, his voice barely a whisper. "We go in smart. Fast, but smart. You get her out. We handle the rest."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He positions his men. Two on point, two behind them, two more covering our backs. Then he looks at me, and I see something in his eyes I've never seen before. Not forgiveness, that’s for certain. But understanding, maybe. Recognition of what I'm willing to do, willing to sacrifice.
"Go get your woman," he says quietly.
The door bursts open under the first man's boot—and then I hear it, a sound that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
A gunshot. Not suppressed. Loud and sharp and final. And then Svetlana's voice, ragged and desperate: "Stay back. Stay the fuck back or I swear to God?—"
I'm moving before I can think, pushing past Ilya's men, my injured hand forgotten, pain forgotten, everything forgotten except the need to reach her. The room opens up before me. Large, concrete, lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. And there?—
Svetlana.
She’s standing in the center of the room, covered in blood, a gun in her shaking hands. At her feet, a guard lies dead, half his head missing. And around her, like wolves circling prey, stand Iosef, Evan, and Grigory. Three more guards are behind them, weapons raised but hesitant, like they aren't sure if they should shoot a pregnant woman.
But that isn't what stops my heart. It's the way Svetlana is holding that gun. Not pointed at them.
Pointed at herself. At her own head.
"Svetlana—" The word rips out of me.
Her eyes find mine. Her expression is wild and desperate… and on the verge of breaking.
"I won't let them," she says, and her voice is steady even though her hands shake. "I won't let them touch me again. I won't let them hurt my baby. I won't?—"
"SVETLANA, NO!"
I lunge forward, and the room explodes into chaos.
Iosef's men open fire, and Ilya's men return it. I crash into Svetlana, knocking her sideways out of the range of the gunfire, the gun discharging into the ceiling as we hit the ground. Concrete bites into my shoulder, my hip, but I don't feel it. I cover her body with mine, feeling bullets whip past us, hearing screams and shouts and the wet sound of metal punching through flesh.
"Kazimir—" Her voice is muffled against my chest.
"Stay down," I growl, then roll off her, bringing my gun up.
The room is a war zone. Ilya's men have taken cover behind overturned tables and old equipment, trading fire with Iosef's guards. Muzzle flashes light the darkness. The air fills with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the copper tang of blood.
One of Iosef's guards is charging toward us, his face twisted in rage. I put two rounds in his chest and one in his head. He drops three feet away, his momentum carrying him forward until he slides to a stop at my feet.
