I knew he didn’t know where Zoya was, but regardless, he was moving toward her.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
A bullet clipped my shoulder before I could move. The limb went numb for a split second, fingers tingling as blood soaked into my sleeve. I forced it back because pain was irrelevant.
Zoya was the most important thing.
Something rushed through me as I hyper focused and started laying out the remaining motherfuckers. The world narrowed to angles, distance, and breath. Everything else dropped away. I tracked the first one through the smoke haze as he scrambled for cover behind a shipping container, his boots slipping in blood that wasn’t his, yet.
I adjusted half an inch and squeezed the trigger. The recoil snapped into my palm, familiar and clean. The round caught him high in the back, just below the shoulder blade. He pitchedforward hard, face slamming into the concrete, fingers clawing uselessly at the ground before he went still.
Another one came around the side of a rusted forklift, shouting something I didn’t bother to register. He fired too fast, too sloppily. Sparks kicked off the steel beside my head. I pivoted, dropped to one knee, and put a round through his thigh. He screamed, collapsing sideways, trying to drag himself behind cover. I closed the distance instead. Two steps. One controlled breath. I fired again and ended the sound coming out of him.
A third man tried to retreat toward the SUV by the gate, fumbling with his radio, probably calling for backup that wasn’t coming. I caught him mid-stride. The shot hit, and he staggered, confused, as if his body hadn’t processed what happened yet. I walked forward and fired again, this time higher. He dropped without another word.
The only thing I thought about—cared about—was protecting Zoya and getting to her.
By the time the last body hit the ground, the yard was quiet except for the ringing in my ears and the distant hum of engines. Smoke hung low in the air, and the concrete was slick and dark, shell casings glittering under the yard lights like scattered coins.
I stood there for half a second, chest rising slow and steady, scanning for movement. Nothing. Andrey’s men were down, and now it was time to go after the fucker.
I took off at a sprint and cut through the side gate and down the service drive, gravel spraying underfoot. My lungs burned, my shoulder throbbed, but I ignored both.
I heard it before I saw it. A single gunshot, sharp and close. My heart didn’t pound. It dropped.
I rounded the bend, and the scene hit me all at once. My car idled where I’d left it, the driver’s side door hanging open, the interior light spilling into the dark like a beacon. No movement. No Zoya.
The gravel near the rear tire was disturbed; deep heel marks dragged sideways. There was blood, not pooled, not sprayed from a body, but a streak. Dark and wet against the pale stone.
I stepped closer, jaw locking so tight it hurt. There was a second smear near the open door, lower this time, like someone had braced a hand there.
Good girl. She got a shot off and hit that motherfucker.
I scanned the tree line and caught the faint glow of taillights disappearing through the secondary exit road. Andrey had planned this. He never intended to fight me head-on.
My fingers curled slowly into a fist, shoulder and arm screaming as muscle tightened around the wound. He took her, and I was going to fucking flay him.
I stepped to the open door and looked inside. Another smear of blood streaked across the center console. She fought, and I drew in a slow breath, forcing the rage down into something usable. Rage was loud and powerful.
If she’d gotten a round off, Andrey was wounded and bleeding somewhere.
I straightened slowly, every inch of me going still. If Andrey thought I was dangerous and psychotic before, him taking Zoya had made me downright lethal.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, forcing my breathing to level out before I dialed. I didn’t call soldiers, or my connections to the high level of the organization. I called the man who saw everything.
He answered on the second ring. “Yes.”
“Ilya,” I said, my voice flat and controlled. “I need eyes.”
There was no hesitation or questions on the other end, just a shift in his tone that was subtle but immediate. He was already getting me what I needed.
“Location.”
I gave him the coordinates of where I was. “Industrial yard near the east rail cut. Five minutes ago, a dark SUV exited the secondary service drive. I know nothing else aside from Andrey and Zoya Ivanov are inside that vehicle.”
No response, but I heard a keyboard click in the background.
“He’s bleeding,” I added. “He’ll need medical attention from someone underground.”
