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I held out my wrists. “Of course.”

He examined the faint red marks, his thumbs moving carefully over the skin before he released me.

“I’m okay. I promise,” I added.

Nikolai replaced the rope with a pair of plastic training restraints and fastened my hands in front of me.

“This time, you don’t create slack.”

“Wonderful.”

Amy unzipped the garment bag and removed a narrow black tool no longer than my smallest finger from the cuff of the blouse I planned to wear to the warehouse tomorrow.

“It’s a ceramic cutter,” she said. “It won’t trigger the ordinary metal scanner they’ll likely put you through.”

I took it and began working against the plastic between my wrists. The angle was awkward enough to send the blade skittering across the mat on my first attempt.

Sergei bent instinctively, but then he stopped himself. He looked at me, and I looked at the tool, then he took a step back and remained where he was. I lowered myself onto one knee, trapped the cutter beneath my boot, and dragged the restraint against its edge instead of trying to hold both steady. The plastic gave after several hard passes.

Nikolai nodded. “Nice work.”

Sergei said nothing, but the approval on his face warmed me more than his praise would have.

The close-quarters strike came next. Nikolai demonstrated it once against a padded target. He didn’t use any sort of dramatic swing, nor did he draw his fist back far enough to warn the other person. He took one short step inside the attacker’s reach, drove the heel of his palm upward beneath the chin, followed by immediate movement toward the exit.

“You aren’t staying to fight,” he said. “You’re buying yourself the time to flee. Use it.”

Sergei put on the chest and head padding.

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you volunteering as tribute?”

“No one else is touching you.”

Sergei took position in front of me, broad enough that every exit disappeared behind him. He caught my left wrist and reached toward my shoulder with his free hand, simulating someone trying to grab my upper body. My first response was too fast. I twisted, struck, and found nothing because he had already shifted away.

“Again,” he said.

I reset, but he caught me a second time. I felt the impulse to move immediately, but Sergei had taught me the route of every attack before I entered it. Men expected panic. Fast didn’t always mean unpredictable. So, I waited half a second while his grip adjusted. Then I stepped closer rather than pulling away, turned my wrist toward the weakest point in his hand, and drove my palm upward into the padded guard beneath his chin, and Sergei’s head snapped back.

Nikolai let out a booming laugh. “Beautiful.”

“I wouldn’t use that word,” Sergei said, working his jaw back and forth.

“You just got hit by your wife.”

I smiled. “Should I do it again so we can determine whether the first try was just luck or…?”

Sergei’s green eyes darkened, and his mouth curved upward. “Careful, little pet,” he said softly enough so that only I could hear.

“Speak for yourself, Daddy,” I reminded him softly, my pulse quickening.

He grinned and took a step back, casually bowing his head.

After that, we spent the next two hours rehearsing the whole plan, from emergency signals to exits to what we should expect from Sokolov, Volkov, and Levon.

By the time the sun had set, we were ready.

* * *