“That’s not good.”
“No. It’s not.” I glance out the rear window. The street behind us looks empty, but that means nothing. “I’m taking Kirsten home. I need you to pull up the security feeds from the gala and find out how he got in. Check the guest list against known Volkov associates.”
“Already on it.” I hear him typing. “You want me to send backup?”
I consider it. We’re only fifteen minutes from home. The driver is armed. I’m armed. Bringing in more people might cause a scene, draw attention we don’t want.
“No,” I decide. “Just trace my location and keep the line open. If anything happens—”
Headlights flood the back window.
I don’t even have time to shout a warning before the impact. A massive black SUV slams into the rear of our car with enough force to send us spinning. Kirsten screams. I reach for her, trying to brace us both as the world becomes a whirlwind of screeching metal and shattering glass.
“Menlow!” Pavel’s voice is tiny and far away, coming from the phone I’ve lost somewhere in the wreckage. “Menlow, what’s happening?”
The car flips. Once. Twice. We roll like a toy kicked by an angry child, and I lose track of which way is up. My head cracks against the window. Stars explode behind my eyes.
Then everything stops.
For a moment, there’s only silence. The kind that comes after violence, heavy and waiting.
I’m hanging upside down, suspended by my seatbelt. Blood drips from somewhere on my face, pattering against the crumpled ceiling below me. The car is destroyed, the windows are blown out, and the frame has been twisted into something unrecognizable.
“Kirsten.” My voice comes out hoarse, and my throat burns as I add, “Kirsten, answer me.”
Nothing.
I turn my head, and pain lances through my skull. She’s beside me, also hanging from her seatbelt, with her dark hair spilling toward the ground. Her eyes are closed. Blood streaks her temple.
“Kirsten!”
Still nothing.
Footsteps crunch on broken glass outside. Multiple sets. Moving fast.
They planned this. The realization crashes over me like ice water. Jovan approaching her at the gala wasn’t a message. It was bait. They knew I’d get her out of there the moment she told me about him. They knew I’d take her away from the venue and all its security.
I played right into their hands.
The door beside Kirsten wrenches open with a screech of protesting metal. Hands reach in and start cutting through her seatbelt.
“Don’t touch her!” I thrash against my own restraints, but my seatbelt is jammed, and my left arm isn’t responding the way it should. Dislocated, maybe. Or broken. I can’t tell through the adrenaline. “Get your fucking hands off her!”
They ignore me. Two men in dark clothes drag her limp body through the window and into the night.
I scream her name. I scream until my throat tears. But they don’t stop, and I can’t get free, and I have never felt so helpless in my entire life.
A face appears at my window. Jovan.
“Thank you for making this so easy,” he says. “Mr. Volkov sends his regards.”
Then he’s gone, and I hear doors slamming and an engine starting.
No.
No, no, no.
I grab the seatbelt buckle with my good hand and press. Nothing. I press harder, putting all my weight into it, but themechanism is crushed and won’t release. The knife. I keep a knife in my jacket pocket. If I can just reach it—
