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With one hand on the wheel, I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. The screen is cracked, but I’m able to pull up the tracking app. My pulse hammers a frantic rhythm in my ears.

Three blue dots appear on the map.

Cora. Ruslan. Demyan.

They’re half a mile ahead, tucked into a road behind a row of warehouses.

And they aren’t moving.

A wave of dread washes over me. Move. Move, goddammit. Drive.

But the dots remain fixed in place like tombstones.

I throw the sedan into the turn, tires screaming against the curb as I barrel down the dark road.

The scene comes into view all at once, illuminated by my headlights.

Two bodies lie sprawled in the middle of the road. Unfamiliar men in dark suits, dead where they fell. The car Cora was in sits half mounted on the sidewalk, steam hissing from beneath the crumpled hood. The rear passenger door hangs open.

I jam on the brakes, throw the door open before the car is fully stopped, and sprint for the vehicle.

“Cora!”

The back seat has several bullet holes and sparkles with broken safety glass. Her clutch is discarded on the seat.

“Cora!” I roar, standing up and scanning the shadows, the alleyways, the empty road.

Nothing.

There’s a ragged groan from the front seat.

I yank open the driver’s door. Demyan is slumped forward over the steering wheel, his breathing shallow. In the passenger seat, Ruslan is alarmingly pale, his eyes closed, a dark stain covering his abdomen.

“Zev…” Demyan rasps. “Zevran…”

“Where is she?” I demand. “Demyan! Where is Cora?”

Demyan’s eyes roll, unfocused, fighting the blackness pulling at him. “Didn’t…didn’t see…” he stammers, his voice barely a wet breath. “They took her…took her alive…”

They took her alive.

My mind conjures every horrific scenario I’ve ever inflicted on my own enemies. Dark rooms, cold concrete, iron restraints. I see her pale and beaten, her eyes wide with the suffocating fear I swore I’d protect her from. She’s out there in the dark right now, terrified, screaming my name, praying for me to save her.

And I’m standing on a deserted street, completely blind.

Demyan makes a choking sound, and blood trickles down his chin.

I pull my phone out, glance at the nearest cross street sign, and dial emergency services. I give the location to the dispatcher in clipped sentences and throw my phone onto the dashboard.

With both hands, I lean my weight into the bullet wound in Demyan’s chest to stem the flow of bright red blood.

“Stay with me,” I order, looking between him and Ruslan. “Look at me, Demyan. Stay awake.”

Demyan swallows hard, a line of red trickling from the corner of his mouth. “She fought. She shot two of them, but they dragged her out of the car.”

She fought them.

A fierce spark of pride cuts through the horror in my gut. My girl did that. She fired a gun—with a broken wrist—even when I wasn’t there to hold it for her.