For a heartbeat, silence grips the room.
Then the world explodes.
The door bursts open, detonating so loudly, my eardrums feel like they’ve exploded. Gunfire rips through the open doorway, deafening cracks that split the air like thunder. The two-way mirror behind me shatters. Shouts erupt, sharp and panicked.
My captor releases me, shoving me hard to the floor as he lunges for his rifle. I slam against the concrete, cheek grinding against the hard surface, shoulder and arm screaming from the impact as they’re trapped under me.
Someone hauls me back, away from the chaos, pulling me behind the fallen table. Tools are scattered around with the bullets. Someone cuts the ties binding me to the chair, and when I crane my neck back around to see my savior, I’m disturbed to see that it’s Anton.
The chaos that floods the interrogation room erupts—men yelling in Russian, boots pounding outside the hallway, bullets biting through plaster.
As soon as I’m free, I shove the chair away from me and sit up, looking over the edge of the table to find who the hell is behind the torrent of bullets.
And then I see him.
Maksim runs down the hall like a storm itself, black-clad and merciless, his soldiers flooding in behind him, guns spitting fire as they move in one uniform line. It isn’t long before the room I’m in transforms into a slaughterhouse. Anton’s men drop one by one, blood painting the walls, screams cut short by sharp, efficient execution.
He moves through it all untouched, unstoppable. His gun rises, falls, every shot precise as if the battlefield is nothing more than a chessboard and he’s already seen the endgame and this is all just a formality to get to the finale.
For a moment, all I can do is stare.
Then his eyes find me. The calm mask he wears falters—only for a second—but I see it.
Hands clamp down on my shoulders from behind, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as I’m yanked off the floor. My body lurches back into the iron cage of someone’s chest. The stink of sweat and cheap vodka fills my nose, the scrape of stubble rough against my temple.
A flicker of something raw and fierce breaks through. His jaw tightens, his stride quickens. Two men move to cut him off, rifles raised. He cuts them down without slowing, stepping over their bodies like stones.
Something cold is pressed against my neck. A quiet click echoes in my ear.
A gun.
Maksim’s steps falter, coming to an abrupt halt. He’s only a few feet from me now, close enough that I can see the rise and fall of his chest, close enough to see the hatred radiating off him.
“Don’t,” Anton warns.
His fury is palpable, dark and consuming. His fingers flex around the handle of his gun as he trains it on Anton behind me, fingering the trigger like he’s debating whether or not he’s got the aim to take the shot.
“Easy,” Anton says. There’s no longer amusement coiling through his words. His voice is taunt with an audible swallow. “One wrong twitch, and your little prize stains the floor.”
The gun digs deeper against my throat. I can feel the faint tremor of the man’s hand, and the thought that a single mistake could end me sends a bolt of terror slicing through my body. My pulse hammers against the steel muzzle while I try remaining statue-still.
His eyes narrow, that mask of composure fighting to slide back into place. But it’s too late. I’ve already seen the truth burning behind it.
He’ll burn the whole city down for me, and Anton knows it.
“You let me walk out of here, Antonov, and I’ll let your little American go.”
Maksim breathes in slowly, fighting to regain composure. “It’s too late for negotiations, Sidrov.”
“True. But we both know you’re at a disadvantage here.”
Maksim’s stare never wavers.
But slowly, he lowers his gun just a fraction, taking it away from the spot he’s aimed and pointing the muzzle down to the floor.
Anton chuckles from behind me. “It’s good to see the mighty AntonovPakhanhas finally learned when to kneel.”
Something flickers in Maksim’s eyes, a glint of resolve that makes my stomach knot because I suddenly realize I recognize it. His free hand twitches—a signal so small I almost miss it. The barest flex of two fingers at his side.
