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Nikolai is out there, and I’m stuck here, unable to do anything to help him.

“Can you just fucking stop?” Alina shoots up to her feet. Her face is vampire pale in the white light of the LED ceiling strip, her chest heaving as she glares at me, and I realize I’ve inadvertently resumed my foot tapping.

Before I can snap back—she’s not the only one whose nerves are frayed—Lyudmila says something in Russian. Though her round face is pale as well, the tone of her voice is soothing, and Alina sinks back onto her futon, pushing back her hair with a shaking hand before smoothing it over her red evening gown.

I stare at her, struck by just how distressed she is, way more than when we had the incident with Slava. Does she know something that I don’t?

Are we in even greater danger than I’m aware of?

I set Slava down on the bed and walk over to her, the cement floor cold on my bare feet—in the rush to get me down here, my strappy heels were left behind in Nikolai’s office. Sitting next to her on the futon, I ask quietly, “Are you okay?”

She looks at me, her jade eyes glittering too brightly.

“Is something else going on?” I press. “You seem unusually agitated—not that you don’t have good reason to be.”

She opens her mouth to say something, then shakes her head. “It’s nothing.” Her voice is tight. “I’m getting a bad headache, that’s all.”

Of course. That’s what happens when she’s under stress. Poor thing. I cover her icy hand with mine, glad to focus on something other than my own debilitating fear. “Do you have your medication?”

“No.”

I glance at the fold-out ladder leading up to the garage. What are the odds I could run upstairs and get it for her quickly?

“Don’t even think about it,” Alina snaps, reading my mind with her brother’s uncanny skill. “If I want it, I’ll get it myself. But neither one of us should—”

The ceiling light flickers as a loud boom shakes the room, making my stomach seize and sending plaster raining down on our heads.

As one, we jump to our feet, and I rush over to Slava, whose eyes are now wide with fear. “Mama Chloe.” His voice is thin as I pick him up and settle his sturdy weight on my hip. “Where’s Papa? I don’t like this. I want him with me.”

I tighten my arms around him. “Me too, darling. Me too. But don’t worry. It’ll be okay. Your daddy will be here soon. We just need to wait.” I hope Slava can’t feel me shaking—or see the expression on Alina’s face.

She looks like she’s been placed on death row, with the execution scheduled for today.

Lyudmila must notice because she steps up to Alina and wraps an arm around her slender shoulders, murmuring something in Russian. I catch the words “Alexei” and “braht”—the Russian word for “brother”—and I wish for the hundredth time that I knew more Russian.

I also desperately wish I knew what’s happening up there, whether Nikolai and Pavel are okay. In addition to all the supplies, there’s a panel of monitors on the other side of the room—presumably a window to the outside world—but the only thing we were able to see on the monitors when we turned them on was static.

“What do you think caused that?” I ask, unable to stay silent any longer. Despite my best efforts, my voice betrays my agitation, the awful terror gnawing at my insides at the thought of Nikolai getting hurt. Hugging Slava to me tighter, I steady my tone. “The explosion, I mean. Do you think—”

“Could be an RPG.” Alina’s voice is flat now, oddly unemotional as she extricates herself from Lyudmila’s supportive embrace, and even though her eyes are still glittering with that painful brightness, her features are composed once more. “They could’ve launched it at the garage to take out our vehicles and eliminate the option of escape. Either that, or they manually planted some explosives at the garage entrance—which would mean they’re already here, at the house.”

And Nikolai is badly injured or killed.

The nausea that twists my stomach is so severe I have to swallow to hold back vomit. It takes everything I have to keep my voice steady for Slava’s sake. “Are there any guns down here? I’ve been to a shooting range a few times, so I can—”

Alina is already walking to the panel with the monitors, where she presses her palm against the wall the way Nikolai did in his office. And as in his office, the wall slides away, revealing a collection of weapons that would make an arms dealer proud.

“My brother has foreseen everything,” she says, picking up a Glock. “They’re unlikely to find this room anytime soon, but if they do, we’re ready.” She loads the gun with swift, sure movements that make me realize she’s been to a gun range more than a few times.