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The guard standing at the edge of the trees suddenly jerks, a small dark hole appearing in the center of his forehead. He drops without a sound. Perfect shot, silenced.

The second guard turns, confused, staring at his fallen mate. He opens his mouth to shout a warning—too late. Another whoosh, and he crumples.

The guard by the barn door is more alert. He raises his weapon, scanning the trees, shouting something in Russian. Mikhail emerges from the barn, dragging Fallon behind him, gun already drawn.

“Now,” I bark, and we surge forward.

And then it starts. Thwip. One of his men, who comes rushing from behind the barn, drops.

Another two spin around, shouting as they lift their guns, trying to work out where the shot came from.

Their confusion lasts exactly two seconds when I put a bullet through the chest of the nearest one while Santos’s men open fire from the west. Gunfire explodes around us, shattering the quiet night.

Santos’s men storm the clearing from the front of house, moving with military precision. One of Mikhail’s guards goes down, riddled with bullets. The other turns to run and is mowed down before he makes it two steps.

Mikhail takes a hit to the shoulder and staggers, cursing in Russian. The impact spins him halfway around, but doesn’t make him let go of Fallon. He hauls her into the barn, dragging her by the hair like she’s cargo. I catch a glimpse of her face—bloody eyes, wild with fear.

“Fallon!” I shout, taking off after him as my men swarm the yard, picking off the remaining Russians.

My focus narrows to the barn door, everything else fading to background noise.

The crack of gunfire, the shouts of men, the roar of the fire—all of it just static compared to the urgency pounding through my veins.

The heat from the fire intensifies, creeping toward the barn with every second.

The walls of the cabin collapse inward with a thunderous crash, sending a fountain of sparks into the night sky.

Embers dance on the wind, drifting toward the old wooden barn.

We’ve got minutes, maybe less, before it goes up too, along with the forest if Santos’s men don’t find a way to put it out.

I hear Nathan gasp behind me. He’s spotted Rebecca’s body again, the reality of her stillness finally sinking in. I don’t have time to check on him, to offer empty words of comfort. Fallon’s all I see. All that matters right now.

Milo meets me at the barn’s edge, appearing like a ghost at my side. His face is spattered with blood, none of it his own. He unsheathes his knife with one hand, his gun gripped in the other. We lock eyes for half a second—no words needed. Over twenty years together distilled into a glance.

We burst in, guns raised, moving in perfect tandem.

The barn is dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from a rafter, and I can hear the soft whirring of what must be a generator somewhere.

Dust motes dance in the beam of light, swirling in our wake.

The smell of rotted old hay and wood mingles with the dust.

Mikhail has Fallon in the center of the barn, the barrel of his gun pressed to her temple. Blood runs down his arm from the shoulder wound, all while his hand is steady. His eyes flick between me and Milo, calculating and cold.

“Put your weapons down,” he snarls. “Or I blow her brains out right here.”

I keep my gun trained on him, looking for an opening, an angle, anything. There isn’t one. The position is too perfect—he’s using her as a shield, the gun too firmly pressed against her head for any margin of error.

Fallon’s eyes meet mine, and I lift my hands slowly. “Alright,” I say carefully. “Alright.” I bend, setting my gun on the dusty barn floor. “Milo,” I say without turning.

Milo hesitates. His jaw ticks, the only sign of the war raging inside him. Then he drops his pistol, the clatter loud in the tense silence.

“The blade, too,” Mikhail snarls.

Milo’s eyes narrow, and he reluctantly tosses his knife. It lands point-down, sticking in the wooden floor between us and Mikhail.

Bang.

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space.

Milo gasps, staggering backward. Fallon screams, the sound tearing from her throat.

Blood blooms across Milo’s shirt, just below his collarbone.

He presses his hand to the wound, his face a mask of surprise more than pain when another bang rings out knocking him backward, this one hitting the dead center of his chest.

I move without thinking, rage obliterating everything else.

Mikhail shifts, pressing the barrel tighter to Fallon’s head as he forces her to her knees. “Another step and she’s dead!” he barks, his voice echoing off the barn walls.

I stop. Heart pounding. Fallon’s eyes aren’t on me—they’re on Milo.

The look on her face speaks volumes. I’ve seen it before, that specific kind of helpless fury.

The look of someone watching someone they care about suffer, unable to stop it.

My body vibrates with the need to destroy him.

Rip him apart. Tear him limb from fucking limb.

I can’t. Not yet. Not while he has that gun to her head.

“You’ve lost, Leone,” Mikhail says, his accent thickening with pain and adrenaline. “Your casino, your territory, and now her.” He tightens his grip on Fallon’s hair, making her wince. “I’m going to walk out of here with her, and if you try to follow, I’ll mail her back to you in pieces.”

Fallon’s eyes shift to mine. And then she moves.

Fallon twists, driving her elbow back into Mikhail’s groin with every ounce of strength she has. He grunts, doubling over, his grip on the gun faltering for just an instant. That’s all I need.

I launch myself at him, crossing the distance in two strides. We crash to the ground. His gun goes skittering across the floor. I drive my fist into his face, feeling his nose shatter under my knuckles. He bucks beneath me and manages to land a blow to my ribs that steals my breath.

We roll, grappling in the dirt and hay. I taste blood—mine or his, I can’t tell. All I know is the consuming need to end him, to make him pay for every bruise on Fallon’s skin, for Milo’s blood on the floor, for Rebecca’s body cooling in the yard.

He claws at my eyes. I snap my head back, then drive it forward, smashing my forehead into his already broken nose. He howls, blood spraying across the floor as I reach into my boot for my blade, just as he manages to shove me off.