He raises his own gun.
Shock reverberates through me. I nearly shot him. Nearly shot myhusband. And now—
I duck, sprint down the hall as gunfire erupts on the concrete walls behind me. Around a corner, then another, and another. Racing through this maze to escape my own husband as the lights overhead trace my path, making escape impossible. Fuck.
Shoving myself behind a concrete support beam, I fight to catch my breath. Soft footsteps over concrete. Another light flicking on somewhere far into the building.
What just happened?
I replay the conversation Ian and I had. What exactly did wesay to each other? He asked about Victoria, and he said he would take care of this for me. Brian must have heard that. Must have presumed I wasn’t here to rescue him—but to kill him myself. Add the fact that I just fired off a shot in his direction thinking he was Ian and—
But wait. It’s not that simple, is it?
Brian Davis is a stolen identity. Even if Ian lied to me, Brian’s been up tosomething…and I have no idea what it is.
“Nadia?” Brian’s familiar voice echoes through the halls, taunting. Or maybe that’s my imagination.
Adrenaline floods my veins. Dopamine too. A cat-and-mouse game with my husband? I hate it. Iloveit. My hands are slick with sweat, and I wipe them on my shirt, grip my gun tighter, listen for his footsteps. The light above me turns off, giving me some amount of cover.
“That was not nice, Nadia,” Brian bites out, indignant.
I keep my mouth shut, still thinking through the facts. He was in a weapons storage unit, for god’s sake. Ian’s an idiot, bringing him here. It might be hidden. He might have torture devices and weapons galore. But it also enabled Brian togeta weapon.
Lightswhooshon somewhere close. Brian? Ian? My pulse races. I have no idea who I’m up against. If this is one-on-one, or if all three of us are out for one another.
It’s entirely possible Brian wants me dead.
Half of me wants to leave. I could sprint for the stairwell, probably shove that door open and make it down the stairs before anyone can put a bullet in me. The other half wants to play. Wants tohunt. The monster welling up inside me emerging from the darkness for the most fun she’s ever had.
A footstep squeaks too close, and I react without thinking—spinning, my gun raised, firing off one, two, three shots. I can’tsee his face, but he fires back, hitting the wall behind me. We both dash for cover.
“Is this how it ends, Nadia? Is this what you had planned all along?” Brian pants. “Who the fuck are you?” he bites out.
I breathe, do a mental inventory—no pain ricocheting through my body. No blood dripping down to the floor beneath me.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I call. I have three rounds left and no spare clip. It’s enough, but it would be better if I…
Peering past the edge of my own hiding spot, I catch sight of his elbow around a wall. The lights are already on, already illuminating us. It’s a risk, but I start forward with careful, slow footsteps. When I’m close enough, I wheel around the corner, smacking his right wrist—the one that holds his gun—hitting him in a pressure point that forces him to drop it. The gun clatters to the ground, and I use my own to smack him across the face with its butt. He grunts in pain, and I yank my knee up, hitting him in the groin. But he doesn’t double over in pain and fall to the floor—no, he doubles over and drives his shoulder into my abdomen, tackling me.
We hit the ground hard, my gun clattering to the concrete. Brian straddles me in a position that usually means a verydifferenttype of play. A thrill ripples through my body. I realize I’m grinning, wanting to yank him close and kiss him as much as I want to reach up and punch him. He must see it in my eyes because he hesitates—which gives me just enough time to buck, throwing him off, leap atop his back, and wrap my arm around his throat in a choke hold.
The thing about choke holds is, if you do it right, you immobilize your victim in mere seconds. It’s not about brute strength. It’s abouttechnique. Unfortunately, Brian saw it coming and dipped his chin, stopping me from getting my arm right up against hiscarotid artery to disrupt blood flow to the brain. He shoves himself—and me—back against the nearest wall.
I gasp, pain shooting through me with the force. I topple to the ground, and he’s on me in the next moment, yanking me up, raising a hand—but he hesitates again. Because he can’t hit his wife. Luckily, I have no such inhibitions, and I twist my body around his, pulling one arm tight against my chest, throwing him into an arm bar.
“Maybe we could talk,” I pant, “before we kill each other.”
“Don’t you think it’s too late for that?” he growls. Brian yanks, then squawks as his shoulder dislocates. “God damn it.”
“What do you say?” I murmur. “As much fun as this is, I feel like it’s not going to end well for one of us.”
“You tried to shoot me—I say I don’t trust you.”
That’s entirely fair. I lick my lips, try again.
“In my defense, you tried to shoot me too.”
“You shot first.”
