Page 80

“Maybe, but probably not until after the explosion.” He sounds neutral about that.
The word makes me gasp. Explosion. Bomb. They’re not just sending Nikandr to the wrong location but into a trap designed to kill him and anyone following him into the building.
“There’s a bomb waiting there,” Vadim confirms, reading the horror on my face with obvious satisfaction. “Remote detonation, of course. We’ll wait until he’s inside with his entire strike team, then...” He makes a small gesture with his hands,mimicking an explosion. “No more Nikandr Belov. No more organization. Just a very sad story about a crime boss who died trying to rescue his pregnant girlfriend after forgetting one of the tenants of thevory v. zakoneis to have no familial ties.”
One of the men near the door pulls out a tablet and shows Vadim the screen. “Thermal surveillance confirms multiple vehicles approaching the factory, boss. ETA four minutes.”
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. Nikandr has four minutes before they detonate the bomb and kill him along with everyone who followed him into danger. “This is my fault,” I whisper.
“Yes, it is,” Vadim agrees cheerfully. “Your stupid, reckless choice to rush out of the apartment without thinking, and your desperation to help your friend let us use you perfectly. We played you like a violin, exploiting your compassion and your trust and your pathetic need to protect everyone around you. Your friend Eli sold you out for a hundred dollars.” He sneers in contempt.
The words are designed to break me, to make me collapse into guilt and self-recrimination, but instead of breaking, something shifts inside me, crystallizing into cold determination that burns away the panic and despair. “Eli isn’t my friend,” I say as my thoughts keep working. Allowing this plan to come to fruition is my fault, because I don’t think like a ruthless criminal, but wallowing in guilt won’t save Nikandr or our daughter.
I start scanning the room, taking inventory of every detail that might be useful, noting every bolt in the concrete walls, every pipe running along the ceiling, and every sharp edge that could cut rope or be used as a weapon. The chair I’m tied to is industrial metal with welded joints that create rough edgeswhere the back support meets the armrests. There’s a toolbox visible near one of the support pillars, probably left behind by whoever used this space before it was abandoned.
My wrists are bleeding where the restraints have rubbed them raw, and my whole body is trembling with adrenaline and fear, but my mind feels clear, focused with the kind of laser precision that comes when everything is on the line.
If Nikandr doesn’t save me in time—if he’s already walking into that trap and is already dead even if I don’t know it yet—I’m going to save myself. I’m going to save Elizabeth. I won’t let my daughter die before she ever has a chance to live because her mother was too naïve to recognize a setup, and too angry with her father to stay where it was safe.
“You’re very quiet,” says Vadim, stopping his predatory circling to study my face. “Most people in your situation spend a lot more time begging or crying or demanding to know what we want.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “What’s the point? You’ve already decided what you’re going to do.”
“True, but the process is usually more entertaining.” He seems disappointed. “Irina, perhaps you could encourage our guest to be more interactive?”
Irina moves closer to my chair, and I catch the scent of expensive perfume mixed with something that might be cocaine. Her pupils are slightly dilated, and there’s a manic energy in her movements that suggests she’s high on something stronger than adrenaline.
“What would you like to know?” she asks, her voice sing-song and mocking. “How it felt to watch Yaraslov die believing I lovedhim? How satisfying it was to see the light go out of his eyes when he realized I’d been lying the entire time?”
The words are designed to hurt, to break something inside me that will make me scream or cry or give them the emotional display they’re looking for, but I just study her more carefully. My emotions are still present but pushed back, since they can’t be allowed to dominate right now. I have to remain as dispassionate as possible. I observe the way she holds her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hands, and the way her voice catches on Yaraslov’s name despite her attempts at casual cruelty.
“You did love him,” I say quietly. “That’s why you look guilty when you talk about it.”
Her hand moves so fast I don’t see it coming until her palm cracks across my cheek with enough force to snap my head to the side. The taste of blood fills my mouth, and my ear rings from the impact.
“I don’t feel guilty about anything,” she hisses. “Yaraslov was a mark. A job. A means to an end.” Her voice wavers on the last sentence, and I know I’m right.
Whatever else happened, whatever led her to betray him, there was something real between them. She loved him, and that love is eating her alive even now. “Then why do you look like you’re about to cry?”
This time I see the slap coming and brace for impact, but Vadim catches her wrist before she can follow through.
“Enough,” he says calmly. “Save your energy for more important things.”
He releases her arm and checks an expensive watch on his wrist. The man with the tablet approaches him again, holding the screen so I can see thermal imaging that shows multiple figures moving through what must be the factory building.
“They’re inside,” says the man.
My stomach clenches as Vadim pulls out a phone and speed-dials a number. This is it. They’re going to detonate the bomb while Nikandr is inside the building, probably while he’s searching room by room for any trace of me.
“Nikandr should be approaching the main warehouse space right about now,” Vadim says conversationally while the phone rings. “I think it’s time we made that call.”
As he waits for someone to answer, I notice something that gives me the first real hope I’ve felt since waking up in this chair. His expression isn’t the confident satisfaction of a man whose plan is proceeding perfectly. It’s tense and focused, like someone who’s trying to coordinate a complex operation with multiple moving parts. Which means there are multiple moving parts, and things could go wrong.
I test the ropes around my wrists again, more carefully this time. If I can create enough friction with the chair’s rough edges while they’re distracted with their phone calls and explosions, I might be able to weaken the binding enough to slip free.
It will hurt. The rope is already cutting into my skin and working it against metal will make the wounds deeper, but pain is temporary. Death is permanent, and I refuse to let my daughter die because I was too scared to fight for her life.
29