My left arm screams in protest when I try to move it. Definitely dislocated, at the very least. The shoulder is sitting wrong, and there’s a visible lump where the bone has popped out of its socket. I grab my own wrist with my right hand, take a breath, and yank.
The shoulder pops back in with a wet crunch. I nearly black out from the agony. Colors swim at the edges of my vision, and my stomach heaves, but I don’t have time to be weak. Not when they have Kirsten.
I reach into my jacket with my newly functional arm and find the knife. Three seconds later, I’m cutting through the seatbelt. I drop to the ceiling with a grunt, then crawl out through the shattered driver’s side window.
The SUV that took Kirsten is already at the end of the block. In ten seconds, it’ll turn the corner and disappear.
But there’s another SUV still here, with the engine running. Three men are standing outside it, probably left behind to make sure I’m dead.
They see me at the same time I see them.
I pull my gun and fire before I’m even fully on my feet. The first man goes down with a bullet in his chest. The second ducks behind the SUV. The third raises his own weapon.
I’m faster. Two shots. Center mass. He crumples.
The one behind the SUV pops up and fires back. The bullet catches me in the side, punching through my suit jacket and burying itself somewhere in my ribs. I stagger but don’t fall. I’ve been shot before. I know how to keep moving.
I fire again. Miss. Fire again. The man drops.
The street falls silent.
I press my hand against my side and feel hot blood seeping through my fingers. Not good, but not fatal either, as long as I get it treated soon.
The SUV with Kirsten is gone. I can’t see it anymore.
I’m too late.
The thought threatens to drag me under. They have her. They have my wife, and I let it happen. I practically handed her to them on a silver platter.
Then I hear the roar of an engine and see another car racing toward me. For one awful second, I think it’s more of Oleg’s men. I raise my gun, ready to die fighting.
But the car that screeches to a halt in front of me is familiar. The door flies open, and Pavel jumps out.
“Brother!” He takes in my bloody face, my ruined suit, and the bodies on the ground. “What the hell happened?”
“They took her,” I scream. “They took Kirsten.”
Pavel’s face goes hard. “Which way?”
“North. Black SUV. Maybe thirty seconds ago.”
He doesn’t waste time asking questions. He just grabs my arm and hauls me toward his car. “Get in. I’ve got a tracker on her phone.”
“You can find her?”
“Already on it.” Pavel shoves me into the passenger seat and sprints around to the driver’s side. His phone is mounted on the dashboard, and on it is a blinking red dot moving across a digital map. “They’re heading toward the industrial district. Probably have a safehouse there.”
“Then drive faster.”
Pavel floors it. The car lurches forward with enough force to pin me against the seat, and the wound in my side screams in protest. I ignore it. I’ll deal with it later. After I get her back.
We weave through traffic, running red lights and narrowly missing other vehicles. Pavel drives like a man possessed, taking corners so fast the tires squeal in protest.
“How bad?” he asks without taking his eyes off the road.
“I’ll live.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
