I adjust, ready to finish it, but pain erupts from the opposite side, a white-hot detonation tearing through my shoulder. It’ssudden enough that it almost knocks me off my feet. I grit my teeth and return fire, two more rounds cutting through the air. One hits home. The figure drops to the ground.
Behind me, Ivy screams my name.
Her voice pierces straight through the haze of being shot.
It slices deeper than any bullet, sharper than the pain ripping through my shoulder. My head jerks toward her on instinct, but the motion nearly pitches me forward. My shoulder is dead weight, dragging me down as I move, the wound close to my heart. It leaks blood, coating my arm and hand as it travels quickly.
A shadow has barreled from the mouth of the alley, arms snapping around Ivy within seconds of her calling out to me. She thrashes like a wildcat, kicking and clawing, her voice ragged with fury and terror as she screams at the person behind her to let her go.
But he’s bigger, stronger. His arms lock across her chest and waist, dragging her away from me step by brutal step.
“No!” The roar tears out of me, lifting my gun and hearing the horrific sound of the barrel jamming.
I lunge forward, but my wounded shoulder betrays me. It seizes and sends me stumbling. My vision fractures again, spots bursting across my sight as I fight not to collapse.
There is a van already waiting. Black steel, back doors yawning wide. He shoves her inside.
She kicks, her heel slamming against the doorframe, her hands clawing for purchase to try and sit upright. For a single, burningsecond her eyes meet mine, begging me to get to her. To rescue her.
And then the door slams, her scream cuts off, our connection severed in an instant.
One of the drivers has the window already rolled down, a gun with a silencer pointed straight at me. I’m given two seconds of a head start to dive back into the alleyway, the bullet whizzing by me, nearly catching my ear.
The engine roars, tires squealing as the gas pedal is pressed to the floor. The van surges forward, smoke curling off the rubber as it peels away from the curb and down the road.
I stagger toward one of the fallen bodies, grabbing a discarded gun and raising it, firing. Sparks explode across the van’s rear doors, bullets ricocheting uselessly against reinforced steel. The recoil tears through my wounded shoulder, sending fresh waves of fire down my arm, but I don’t stop.
Ican’t.
The van fishtails, engine howling as it tears down the street, red taillights vanishing.
As useless as it is, I chase after it. Broken strides, blood soaking through my clothes. I run until the magazine clicks empty, until my lungs burn.
Ivy is gone.
20
IVY
Ihave no idea where I’m being taken, no time to even process what’s happening because as soon as that bullet tore through Maksim’s body, the world completely shattered around me.
One second, I’m pushing away from the wall to get to him, legs moving before my brain even catches up, desperate to catch him as he staggers with blood slicking his wounded arm. The next, rough hands are clamping around me, and then I’m wrenched backward.
I kicked. My nails clawed fiercely at fabric and flesh, but I couldn’t break free. It was no use when another set of hands had grabbed my hair, yanking hard enough to send sparks of pain down my scalp, while I’m shoved into a blacked out van.
As soon as the doors slam shut, I know I’m already as good as dead.
“Let me go!” I scream.
Before I try to sit up and scramble around from the men crowding the back of the van, something coarse drops over my head. A sack, I realize, the smell of chemicals choking me instantly. Darkness swallows me whole, suffocating, pressing the fabric against my lips every time I heave in a gasp of air.
More hands grab me, twisting my limbs around until I’m bound by something tight. Plastic zip ties.
The rumble of the engine roars to life beneath me. Voices snap around me, low and fast, Russian syllables slicing through the air. Their tone is jagged, commands and curses volleying between them as they argue.
It’s so different from Maksim’s Russian. His is always all soft consonants and husky warmth whispering in my ear when he speaks. These men are clipped annoyance, hammering every word with a threat.
I choke on a sob, my breath coming too fast.Oh, God, Maksim… What if he’s dead?
