Sasha brutally shoved me onto the back seat floor, kicked open the deformed car door, and fired three precise shots, killing two gunmen closing in from the side.
"Follow me!"
He hauled me forcibly from the car, using his back to shield me from stray bullets, dragging me toward a dark alley off the street.
Rain mixed with acrid gunpowder and blood filled my nostrils. I'd lost my heels running, broken glass on the cobblestones cutting my feet, but I felt no pain.
Absolute terror gripped my heart. I was carrying Nikolai's child—I couldn't die here!
"Pakhan, we're under attack—" Sasha returned fire while shouting into his earpiece.
Just as we were about to burst from the alley's end—
A massive black shape lunged from behind a dumpster in the visual dead zone!
A perfect ambush.
Sasha's reflexes were lightning-fast, but to protect me, he took the thick steel pipe that flew from the side.
A dull thud—Sasha's head snapped from the blow.
In that half-second as he fell, a pair of thick arms locked around my neck from behind.
Before I could even scream, a coarse, musty-smelling hood was brutally shoved over my head, plunging my world into absolute darkness.
"Mmph—let go—"
I thrashed wildly, my fingers clawing at the man's arms.
"Stay still, you little bitch!" The man punched me brutally. My head exploded in pain. I lost all ability to resist and was hoisted up like a sack of flour.
But in that brief second before I lost consciousness, I caught a distinctive scent.
An expensive custom cologne—Sicilian bergamot mixed with cheap Cuban cigar smoke.
That smell. I'd smelled it at the charity gala, when that nauseating, greasy grin had leaned close to me.
Carmine Marchetti.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nikolai & Vivienne
Nikolai
The air in the study hung dead as molten lead.
"Sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unavailable..."
I killed the satellite phone, expressionless. Third time dialing Sasha's number. Sasha never missed my calls. Not unless he was dead or unconscious.
On the tablet, the red dot marking Vivienne's phone—like a light suddenly unplugged—vanished from the holographic map.
"Pakhan." Mark, the intel chief covering for Sasha, burst through the door, moving fast, forehead slick with sweat. "The convoy sent to pick up Ms. Cole... was ambushed on the south side. Heavy firepower. We found signs of intense gunfire and blood, but... no sign of Ms. Cole or Sasha."
My eyes stayed locked on the D.C. map, running through hundreds of kidnapping routes, surveillance blind spots, likely holding sites.
That street cut through abandoned industrial blocks—open sight lines, perfect for an ambush. If Marchetti's people made the move,they'd hit a deserted stretch, then bolt straight to their south-side compound—
