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His eyes are wild, nostrils flaring, and his hair is damp with sweat. His shirt is unbuttoned, stained with a dark substance, possibly blood. His mouth twists into a cruel, desperate sneer.
“Move,” he barks, and when I don’t because of the pains in my ribs, his hand lashes out, seizing a fistful of my hair.
I scream as he yanks me forward.
“Cristóbal, stop—please—what are you doing?”
“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, dragging me into the hallway. My feet stumble to keep up, but the pain in my scalp makes it impossible to focus. I claw at his wrist, nails breaking, but he doesn’t let go.
His other hand jabs something cold and hard into my side.
A gun.
My blood goes ice-cold.
“Walk,” he snarls. “You’re not going to be the reason I die in this goddamn house. Instead, you are going to be my ticket out.”
I twist against him, trying to shove back, but he tightens his grip and leans in to speak into my ears.
“Even though you’re my insurance,querida.One wrong move and I’ll blow your fucking brain out.”
Tears prick my eyes from pain and fury. I hate that I’m shaking. I hate that part of me is terrified. But most of all I’m shaking with fear for my son.
“Wh….what is going on?” I manage to ask, feeling breathless.
Cristóbal doesn’t answer. His face is a twisted mask of rage and fear. That tells me everything I need to know.
Whoever is coming has him petrified
We turn a corner, and I catch a glimpse of the bodies—two guards lying motionless in a pool of dark crimson liquid. One has a blade still buried in his throat. The other’s eyes are open and glassy.
Hope claws up my throat because someone is finally here for me.
Cristóbal pulls me tighter against his chest, walking backward now, keeping the gun firmly pressed under my ribs. I hear the sound of voices ahead—low, commanding. I can’t make out the words because they are speaking in Russian. But I know one of them. That voice is carved into my soul.
Zasha.
I want to scream his name. I want to cry out. But Cristóbal’s arm is like a steel vice around my neck. He’s dragging me like a shield toward the central corridor. I can see the entryway now, the dim emergency lights flickering red. Shadows move at the far end of the hallway.
And then they step into view.
Zasha. Viktor. Lev.
Zasha’s eyes lock onto mine instantly, and the rest of the world disappears.
He’s here; He came for us. Relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle—but Cristóbal’s grip keeps me upright.
He jerks me tighter, gun now against my throat. “You come any closer,” he shouts, “and I’ll kill her. Right here.”
Zasha’s eyes narrow. His hands are down, but I see the way his fingers flex. He’s ready.
My chest is heaving, lungs burning, but I manage to look at him—just him. Don’t do anything stupid, I beg silently, because this maniac is crazy enough to pull his trigger.
Cristóbal starts moving again, dragging me back, trying to pivot toward the exit. His focus flicks to Viktor, to Lev—and just as he shifts to scan behind him. And in that split-second of distraction, Zasha lunges.
I feel the rush of air as Cristóbal’s grip is ripped off me. His arm wrenches back, and suddenly I’m flying free—staggering into Viktor’s arms.
I wait for gunfire, but it doesn’t follow. Just grunts, fists, and the cracking of a bone. By the time I blink the sweat and tears from my lashes, Zasha has Cristóbal pinned against the wall.