He moved her.
He moved her and I’m too late and all I have left is blood and steel and empty fucking boxes—
“Maksim,” Angelo snaps.
I’m already at the next one.
Rip the door open.
Nothing.
The next.
Nothing.
I can hear more shots outside. Hear men shouting. Hear Vaska somewhere to my right putting somebody down with brutal efficiency. Hear Gabriel’s decoy doing its job.
Andstillno Ayla.
Every container I open without her in it makes the world go narrower.
Hotter.
Meaner.
Another burst of gunfire cracks across the yard. Someone shouts near the fence line. A body drops somewhere to my left.
I don’t look.
I’m halfway to the next container when metal shrieks over metal somewhere behind me—loud enough to cut through every shot, every yell, every fucking thing.
I turn.
One of the cargo doors is swinging wide.
For one second, all I see is blood.
Red across metal. Red on the ground. Red smeared over the edge of the door like somebody dragged a body through it.
Then she stumbles into the light.
Ayla.
Knife in one hand. Gun in the other. Covered in blood from her hair to her shirt, swaying on her feet like the whole world is tilting under her.
Everything inside me stops.
“Ayla!”
I don’t know if I say it or tear it out of my own throat.
Then I’m moving.
My hand closes around her wrist before I can think. She jerks hard, knife coming up on instinct, wild-eyed and ready to gut whoever touched her.
“It’s me.”
Her breath catches.
