The word had slipped out—I hadn't meant to reveal it, but the shock on his face told me it had landed. He hadn't known. Hadn't realized what he was threatening.
"She's pregnant," I said. "Six weeks. So when you're deciding whether to pull that trigger, know that you'll be killing two people. An innocent child who never did anything to you."
For a moment—just a moment—his grip loosened. The gun wavered.
It was enough.
Keira moved.
I saw it happen in fragments, like photographs flashing one after another. Her body going limp, dead weight in his arms. His grip breaking as he tried to hold her up. The gun swinging wide as he lost his balance.
And then she was falling, twisting away from him, hitting the floor and rolling clear.
I was already moving.
The backup piece was in my ankle holster—a Glock 43, smaller than my primary weapon but just as deadly at close range. I had it in my hand before Branko could recover, the barrel coming up as his gun swung back toward me.
I fired.
The shot took him in the shoulder, spinning him backward. He screamed—a high, animal sound—and squeezedthe trigger. The bullet went wide, punching into the wall behind me.
I fired again. Center mass this time. He staggered, his back hitting the banister, his gun hand dropping.
But he wasn't dead. Not yet.
He looked at me with those flat, dark eyes, blood bubbling from his lips, and tried to raise his weapon one more time.
I closed the distance in three steps and put the barrel against his forehead.
"This is for my wife," I said.
And I pulled the trigger.
The sound of the shot echoed through the house, then faded into silence.
Branko's body slumped against the banister, then slid to the floor, leaving a dark smear on the wood. His eyes were still open, still staring, but there was nothing behind them anymore. Just emptiness.
I stood over him, breathing hard, the gun still raised. My hands were steady—they always were, in moments like this—but something inside me was shaking. The adrenaline, maybe. Or something else.
"Rodion."
Keira's voice. Soft, trembling, but alive.
I turned. She was on the floor where she'd fallen, her back against the wall, her arms wrapped around herself. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, but she was looking at me. Really looking. Like I was the only thing in the world.
I crossed to her in two strides and dropped to my knees, pulling her into my arms. She came willingly, her body pressing against mine, her hands fisting in my shirt.
"I've got you," I said against her hair. "I've got you. It's over."
She was shaking. I could feel the tremors running through her body, the aftershocks of fear and adrenaline. I held her tighter, trying to absorb it, trying to take some of the weight.
"The baby," she whispered. "I didn't—he didn't—"
"The baby is fine. You're fine. You're both fine."
"He was going to kill me. He was going to—"
"He didn't. He's dead. He can't hurt you anymore."
