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"And if Donovan doesn't come?"

A chilling laugh. "Then the boy doesn't need to worry about food anymore."

I bite back a sob. They're going to kill my son if Declan doesn't show up. And they'll probably kill him anyway.

I continue forward until I find another grill. Through it, I can see more of the warehouse floor.

A large man paces nearby—his build and the way others defer to him suggest he's in charge. Not Petrov, but someone important. He checks his watch.

"One hour," he announces. "Get ready."

I need to act before Declan arrives, before they have both of them. But how? I have no weapon, no backup.

The ventilation shaft continues past the grill. I follow it, hoping it might lead somewhere useful. It branches left and right. I choose right and find myself above what looks like an office. Inside, a man sits at a desk, talking on a phone. A gun lies on a table behind him.

I stare at the gun, then at the radio on his desk. Fuck it. It's crazy and I'll probably get us both killed, but what choice do I have?

I wait until the man on the phone gets up and leaves the office. Then I remove the grill and drop down into the room. I grab the gun, checking that it's loaded. Six bullets. Not much, but better than nothing.

I search the desk and find what I'm really looking for—a radio. The same kind the guards are using to communicate. I turn it on, listening to their chatter.

"Perimeter secure. No sign of Donovan yet."

"The boat is ready if we need extraction."

I go to the window of the office, which overlooks the warehouse floor. From here, I can see Conor and his captors clearly. The large man I noticed earlier stands close to my son, his back to me.

I have one shot at this. Literally.

I open the office door a crack, checking the hallway. Empty. I slip out and make my way toward a metal staircase that leads to the main floor. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure they can hear it.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and freeze. Shit. No way to get to Conor without crossing open floor with five guys carrying guns between us. They'll shoot me before I take three steps.

The radio in my hand gives me an idea.

I check my watch. Forty-five minutes until Declan is supposed to arrive. I turn the radio to full volume and set it on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Then I press the talk button and let it squeal with feedback before running back up the stairs.

Shouts of confusion erupt below. Three men race toward the sound, leaving only two with Conor—the leader and one guard.

I take aim from the top of the stairs, steadying my hand. The boyfriend who taught me to shoot always said to exhale before pulling the trigger.

I breathe out and fire.

The guard drops, clutching his leg. Before the leader can react, I fire again, missing him but forcing him to dive for cover.

"Conor, get down!" I scream, racing toward him.

My son jerks his head up, his eyes wild with hope when he spots me. He pulls against the zip ties on his wrists as I rush to him, knife already out from my pocket.

I race across the floor, dodging a bullet that strikes the concrete near my feet. I reach Conor and drop to my knees beside him, sawing frantically at the zip ties with my knife.

"Mom," he sobs as the plastic snaps.

"We need to go. Now."

"Run!" I grab his arm and yank him up. Bullets fly past us, smashing into the wall. I push Conor ahead of me toward the stairs, my body blocking him from the gunfire.

The leader roars something in Russian, on his feet again and aiming at us.