Then her knees buckle.
I catch her before she hits the ground.
Her body slams into my chest, deadweight, limp, warm. Her head falls against my collarbone, hair soaked with sweat. I wrap my arms around her, tightening fast, anchoring her to me even as she fades.
“Mary,” I say low, checking her pulse with my thumb.
It’s there. Fast. Wild.
She’s breathing. Passed out.
I tilt her face up slightly, brushing her hair back, and something in me twists. Her bra’s still showing, torn open from that fucker’s grip. I shrug off my jacket and pull it around her, shielding her from everything, even the room.
Boris appears in the doorway, blood on his hands, gun still hot. He surveys the scene like it’s a grocery list.
“She okay?”
“No,” I grit out. “But she will be.”
He nods once. “We need to go. One of them might’ve gotten a message out.”
I lift her gently, arms locked around her back and under her knees. She doesn’t stir.
Her head drops against my chest like she’s finally decided someone else can carry the panic for her. One hand is still clamped tight around her purse like she fell asleep mid-robbery.
Boris parked a block away, always thinking ahead, always just paranoid enough. I carry Mary to the Tahoe, her weight barely shifting in my arms. She doesn’t stir. Not even when I duck my head into the backseat.
I’m glad we took this car.
It’s spacious, dark-tinted, the kind you disappear in. I settle into the rear seat, holding her close, easing her head down onto my lap. Her cheek presses against my thigh, smeared with dried sweat and something darker. My jacket’s still wrapped around her. She’s shivering now; tiny, involuntary tremors that make my jaw clench.
Boris slides into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and pulls out slowly.
“Cleaner crew’s five minutes out,” he says casually. “They’ll torch the cameras and sweep the scene. That place won’t exist in an hour.”
I nod once, watching the way Mary’s lashes stick together. There’s blood crusted near her temple. Not hers. Still.
My hand drifts, almost without thought, brushing a strand of damp hair off her brow. Her skin’s warm. Clammy. She looks too pale under the overhead lights, except for the pink mark blooming across her throat. My fingers curl around nothing.
“She got a strong grip,” Boris mutters, glancing at the rearview. “Still holding that purse like it owes her money.”
“Let her,” I say.
He lets the silence stretch, the tires humming low across the road.
Then: “Viktor’s not working alone.”
I glance up.
He’s watching me through the mirror, face unreadable. “One of the guys outside had a piece from the New York crew. Couldn’t have moved without clearance. Viktor’s got backup.”
“How much backup?”
“Enough that you’re gonna need more than Lev’s explosives and Dima’s trigger finger.”
I don’t answer. My eyes drift back to her. She shifts slightly, breathing ragged. Her brows twitch. Some part of her is still stuck in that fucking laundromat.
“Your damsel’s a magnet for trouble, boss,” Boris says, casual as anything.
