Page 26

I pulled the robe around her shoulders, turned her away from the broken glass, and moved her toward the concealed service door behind the stage. She resisted for exactly two steps, then another shot struck the wall where we had been standing, and she stopped fighting me.

The service door opened into a narrow corridor smelling of bleach, and lemon floor cleaner. Red emergency light painted the cinder-block walls in uneven strips. Two of my men appeared at the far end, weapons held low and close to their bodies.

“The west stairs are compromised,” Theo reported through my earpiece. “One shooter down. There are two more moving toward the service level.”

“Hold the floor. Do not follow us.”

“Understood.”

Alessia looked at me. “You’re leaving your people?”

“I’m removing the target.”

“I’m not a target.”

A round tore through the drywall beside her head. White powder exploded across her dark hair. I saw the impact before I heard the shot. Saw the small crater open exactly where her face had been a fraction of a second earlier. Saw her eyes widen.

Mila flashed before my eyes, the pool of blood beneath her widening because I had been too late then.

Never again.

I caught Alessia around the waist and threw her over my shoulder.

She let out a furious sound and struck both hands against my back. “Put me down!”

“No.”

“I can walk.”

“You can tell me all about your walking abilities in the car.”

“This is kidnapping!” she shrieked.

Another shot pinged off the metal door behind us.

I carried her toward the secondary stairs, one arm locked around the backs of her thighs and the other holding my weapon. She kicked once, hard enough that the toe of her shoe caught my hip, and I tightened my hold.

“Do that again,” I warned, “and I will remove your shoes.”

“You already spanked me. Are shoes the next terrifying step in the Morozov interrogation process?”

Despite the gunfire, despite the danger and the cold rage building in my chest, the corner of my mouth almost perked up.

“In your case, yes.”

I shouldered through the stairwell door. The narrow concrete steps descended toward the loading level, lit by a single emergency fixture that flickered once before holding steady. Halfway down, I heard the scrape of rubber against concrete. There was someone below us.

I stopped, and Alessia froze.

I lowered her carefully behind a steel service cart on the landing and pressed one finger to my lips. Her eyes went to my gun, then toward the stairs beneath us. Her breathing was fast, but she kept quiet.

Clever girl.

I stepped into the open. The man came up quickly, pistol raised in both hands. He had on a dark jacket. There was a black cross tattooed across the web of his thumb.

He clearly expected me to retreat, but I closed the distance to him instead.

His first shot went high when I struck his wrist aside. The second buried itself in the concrete ceiling as I drove my forearm into his elbow and forced the joint past its natural limit. Bone gave with a soft, ugly pop and his weapon dropped.