Page 44

44

Will

T homas bent to Eszter’s level, speaking softly. She clutched his hand. I moved to the window, scanning the grounds.

“We need to move,” I whispered.

Thomas wrapped a blanket around Eszter’s shoulders. I half expected her to cry or shake with fear, but that little girl carried a strength in her gaze I would’ve never believed possible.

I turned for the hallway.

And froze.

A door groaned open downstairs.

It wasn’t the wind or the door rattling in its frame.

It was the front door opening.

Thomas pulled Eszter back into the room and closed the door with a slow, silent push. The latch clicked.

We held our breaths and listened.

Boot steps, heavy and slow. Rubber soles on hardwood.

From beneath the door, the house’s darkness was shattered by a flashlight beam bouncing across the walls, sweeping wide, then tight.

Searching. Hesitating. Moving again.

From the footfalls, the flashlight-wielding guard was alone, but the pattern of his footsteps sounded wrong. They were curious and wary, not routine. Something had drawn him inside.

Had he heard the creaks and groans of the stairs as we ascended? Or our conversation with the housekeeper? Had he seen motion inside, perhaps when the woman returned to her bedroom, and decided to check things out?

Thomas moved us behind the bed. Eszter huddled between us, clutching my arm. Her breath was shallow. I could feel it through my sleeve. The grip of her fingers dug into my skin, the first sign of real fear I’d caught from her.

The steps reached the top of the stairs.

The flashlight scanned, an all-seeing eye desperate to uncover something hidden from its gaze.

Then came the squeak of a doorknob turning . . . so close.

A voice barked in Russian, followed by the woman’s Hungarian.

A shout. A clatter.

The guard wasn’t calling for help—not yet. He was confused.

But he wouldn’t remain so for long.

Thomas moved.

I saw it from the edge of the frame—his body rising from the shadows, quick and precise. With one arm hooked around the guard’s neck, he jammed the pen-syringe into the opposite side.

The struggle was immediate.

The guard threw his weight backward, and they crashed into the doorframe.

The flashlight, still bright as the sun in the gloom, clattered to the floor. Its beam spun wildly across the walls and curtains.

The guard twisted hard.

He threw an elbow.

Kicked out with a boot.

The rifle flailed, still slung over his shoulder.

I lunged forward, leaving Eszter to hide.

And then—

Crack .

The rifle exploded.

It sounded like the world tearing apart in a single thunderclap.

The ceiling above us split.

Plaster cracked and fell like snow.

Dust swallowed the hallway.

My heart flew into my throat.

The guard was already collapsing—the syringe still embedded in his neck, his body spasming once before he crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.

But Thomas fell, too.

His face pressed to the floor.

He lay motionless.

For a second, I thought he was just winded.

The thought didn’t hold.

Thomas groaned and pushed himself to his knees.

That’s when I saw it.

A dark stain bloomed across his shirt, just below his collarbone. It was black in the moonlight—and spreading.

“Damn it!” I hissed, dropping beside him.

He blinked. “I’m good.”

He wasn’t.

I grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. He staggered, his face tightening, but still he moved. He was bleeding, possibly dying—but moving.

“We’re blown,” he muttered.

“Let’s go.”

I raced back into the bedroom and grabbed Eszter, pulling her into the hallway.

More boots slammed on the stairs.

Voices shouted outside.

“The rifle,” Thomas whispered.

I snatched it off the fallen man’s shoulder and hefted it, ready to shoot anyone in our path.

We didn’t have long to wait. A guard’s head appeared as he climbed the stairs, rifle at the ready.

I fired.

The guard lurched back, then tumbled down the stairs.

Two down, two left.

“Move,” Thomas ordered, pain threading his voice. “I have Eszter. You lead.”

Down we went. One stair, then the next. Rifle swiveling until . . .

The back door flew open.

I took the last three steps in one bound, wheeled, and fired without aiming. The guard was massive, with the chest of a wrestler, his head nearly scraping the ceiling.

Somehow, my bullet struck true, and the man stumbled backward.

But he didn’t drop.

His rifle lifted.

I fired again.

This time, he fell and didn’t rise.

A man outside shouted in Russian.

Thomas’s hand found my shoulder.

“You need to take out the last guard before we leave the house. If we go into the yard, we’ll be too exposed.”

“Take her back upstairs,” I said before advancing down the hallway toward the kitchen. The sound of creaks on the stairwell was all I needed to know Thomas and Eszter were safe—for now.

The kitchen wasn’t as dark as the bedrooms. Moonlight cast long shadows, making the small table appear massive on the floor. The back door stood open, letting in a chilly breeze that buffeted the curtains.

I waited for the beam of another flashlight.

None came.

Then some sixth sense, some primal survival instinct I might never understand, sent alarm bells screaming and wheeled me about just as the fourth guard stepped through the front door. He’d snuck around the house and entered the opposite side.

I ducked around the corner, out of view.

His steps were slow, barely audible—but they were there—and he was headed my way.