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"How long do we have?"
The question catches me off guard. Not 'How will you stop them' or 'What are we going to do'—but an acceptance of the reality, an immediate shift into a survival mode that makes something fierce and proud unfurl in my chest.
"Not long enough," I admit. "They've been planning this for weeks. Maybe months."
Vanya appears in the doorway, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in rapid Russian. When he hangs up, his expression is grim. "Three black SUVs were spotted circling the building. Could be nothing, but..."
"But we don't take chances." I'm already moving toward the bedroom, Kira close behind me. "Five minutes,kisa. Essentials only."
She disappears into the walk-in closet with military efficiency while I unlock the safe hidden behind a false panel. Cash, passports, ammunition. The weight of the Glock against my ribs is a familiar comfort as I slide it into my shoulder holster.
"Mikhail." Her voice carries from the closet, strangely calm. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere they can't follow." I pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find the number I need. "I have a house upstate. Remote. Secure."
The call connects on the second ring. "Dmitri? Da, it's me. I need the cabin prepared. Full security detail. We leave in ten minutes."
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, dusk settles over the city like a shroud. Somewhere out there, men with guns and empty consciences are closing in on us. On her.
The thought makes my trigger finger itch.
Kira emerges with a small leather duffel bag, dressed now in dark jeans and a fitted black sweater that makes her look like a shadow. Her hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, and I catch the glint of the small knife I gave her weeks ago tucked into her boot.
"Ready," she says simply.
I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "Stay close to me. No matter what happens, you don't leave my side. Understood?"
"Understood."
But as we head toward the private elevator, I can't shake the feeling that we're already too late.
Chapter 19
Kira
The night splits open with the first gunshot.
One moment, we're hurrying across the underground parking garage—Mikhail's hand firm around mine, our footsteps echoing against concrete—and the next, the world fractures into chaos. The black Range Rover waits fifty feet away, driver alert, engine purring. Freedom so close I can almost taste it.
Then the squeal of tires. The sudden flood of headlights. The parade of black SUVs that appear from nowhere, blocking our path like a wall of obsidian.
"Stay behind me," Mikhail growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my skin prickle. In one fluid motion, he pulls me against his back and draws his gun. The metal catches the fluorescent light overhead, cold and lethal.
Men pour from the vehicles—six, eight, maybe more—their faces obscured by black balaclavas. The garage air, already thick with exhaust fumes, now crackles with tension.
"Mikhail Zhukov," one calls out, his accent distinctly Eastern European. "We only want the girl. Walk away now, and you might live to see morning."
I feel Mikhail's body tense against mine, the solid wall of his back becoming impossibly harder. His heat radiates through his tailored suit, warming my trembling hands where they clutch at the expensive fabric.
"Kisa," he whispers, so quietly only I can hear, "when I create an opening, you run to the stairs. Don't look back."
"I won't leave you," I breathe, surprising myself with how much I mean it. Six weeks ago, I despised this arranged marriage. Now, the thought of abandoning Mikhail makes my chest constrict painfully.
The first shot comes without warning—not from Mikhail, but from one of the masked men. It ricochets off a concrete pillar inches from our heads, sending dust and fragments flying. I flinch, a small cry escaping my lips.
Mikhail moves like a predator unleashed. His first shot finds its mark—a gunman crumples to the ground. His second creates a spray of blood from another attacker's shoulder. The garage fills with the deafening cacophony of gunfire, the acrid smell of cordite burning my nostrils.
A strong arm wraps around my waist, yanking me backward. Not Mikhail's. I scream, kicking wildly as a stranger drags me toward one of the SUVs. My heel connects with something soft—a knee, perhaps—and I hear a satisfying grunt of pain.