My free hand goes to the back of her neck, forcing her to look at me. Her pupils are blown. Face white under all that blood.Toowhite.
“Are you hurt?”
My eyes drag over her anyway, frantic, useless. Blood on her shirt. Blood on her hands. Blood everywhere. Too much to sort, too much to tell what belongs to who.
Her eyes finally lock on mine.
“Maksim?”
My name hits me like a fucking tidal wave. I can’t even breathe through it.
“Are you hurt?” I demand again.
She shakes her head fast, dazed, adrenaline making her sloppy. “No. No, this is—” Her hand twitches vaguely back toward the container. “A guard.”
“Maks! We gotta go!” Angelo’s voice cuts through the gunfire.
Then I hear it too.
Sirens.
Not close yet. Close enough.
I rip the gun from her hand and shove it into my waistband, grab her by the hand, and start tugging her with me.
“Can you run?”
She nods once. “Yes.”
“Then run.”
I drag her with me.
Gunfire still cracks across the yard behind us, sharper now that the first rush is over. Someone shouts near the front gate. Another body hits gravel somewhere off to my left. I don’t look. I don’t care.
All I care about is the hand in mine.
Ayla stumbles once, catches herself, keeps moving.
My grip tightens.
We cut between containers fast, using steel and shadow for cover while my men finish cleaning up what’s left of the yard. Angelo is ahead of us by the time we hit the fence line, one hand up, waving us through.
“Move!”
Like I need the fucking reminder.
I shove Ayla through the gap first, then come right behind her, gun up, scanning, every nerve in my body still lit raw.
One of our SUVs is already waiting beyond the clipped fence, engine running, back door open.
Dimitri starts toward us from the driver’s side.
“No,” I bark.
He stops.
I’m already hauling Ayla forward.
