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“Matvei!” I cry, pointing at the flames biting the back of his jeans.

Timofey tosses him his jacket and he uses it to smother the flames.

Holes pockmark his pants and I know the skin underneath will be red and raw.

He risked himself for me. Risked dying so that I could survive.

I don’t know how to process that, and I don’t think I’m ready to, not with danger still all around us.

Smoke is pouring out from the lower level and it’s only a matter of time before the flames reach the upper floor. Oleg and Valery are gathered with the others in the entry, Valery clutching her side. Beneath her fingers, I can make out a seeping red stain.

“What do we do? Is it safe to go out there?” she asks Matvei, her voice strained.

“It’s not like we can stay in here.” Timofey checks that his gun is loaded and takes a step toward the door. “I say we load what we can into the car and get out of here.”

Matvei runs a hand over his jaw, leaving a smear of soot behind. “I’ll take point.”

Are they thinking whoever did this is lying in wait out there? Watching everyone else with their firearms makes me feel empty-handed and vulnerable, like I’m just a princess in need of protection.

“Give me one,” I say to Matvei before he can head out the door. “I know how to shoot, and you won’t have to worry about me.”

He works his jaw, then nods at Oleg behind me. “Get her something. But I don’t want you following us out until we say it’s clear. Got it?”

“We’ve got it,” Valery snaps, “just go before we’re all charred to ashes, Jesus. I’d rather take a bullet than burn to death.”

“Lovely,” I say to myself. I was trying not to think of those as the only two options here.

Oleg passes me a weighty pistol. I click the safety off and rack the gun. It’s been a while since I’ve gone target shooting, but hopefully it’s like riding a bike.

“Got the keys?” Matvei asks Timofey, who nods and pats his pocket. “We’ll get the car in position. Whoever is uninjured, set up a line to get the crates into the van. We need to work quickly.”

The two of them slip outside, and I brace myself for the sound of gunshots, my pulse pounding in my ears. Seconds tick by in silence. Then, there’s the beep of the van backing up, and Timofey swings the door open.

“Clear for now. Get loading.”

My ankle is bleeding and probably sprained, but I do what I can to help facilitate the process.

I hate that I can’t see Matvei, but I know he’s covering the van in case whoever set off that explosion comes back to finish what they started.

I just pray it wasn’t us, wasn’t Anton. Was it the Shevchenkos?

Crate after crate goes into the back of the van with the workers, after Boris is strapped into the backseat, and I think we’re okay, that we’re going to save most of the shipment and manage to get out of here without more trouble, when the first gunshot goes off like a firework.

“Matvei!” I scream, panic shooting through my veins. I run for the door, but Oleg catches my hand and yanks me back.

“He won’t thank you for putting yourself in danger,” he warns. Then turns to Valery. “Wait for a break in the gunfire, then climb in through the back to the driver’s seat. Get Anya and yourself out of here.”

He disappears out the door, gun at the ready.

Valery curses, pulling her hand from her side to check the flow of blood.

It’s still oozing slowly, and the sight must make her think twice about disobeying Oleg.

Gunshots fire off in another burst, followed by three answering shots, and I hear a man yell in pain.

Was that Matvei? I can’t handle this, not knowing, not seeing, not helping.

“Let’s go,” Valery says, sprinting out the door and into the back of the van. She climbs between the crates and up to the front seat, staying low. “Get in, Anya!”

“I’m not leaving him! Go!” I slam the back doors of the van shut and pray she takes orders better than her brother.

The van’s wheels spin as she hits the gas, kicking up gravel as she maneuvers it expertly out of the driveway at speed.

Bullets ping into the van’s side from the right as it flies by.

I take the moment of distraction to fling myself into the dense crop of bushes beside the house, away from the direction of the bullets.

There’s another eruption of gunfire, and I throw myself to the ground, praying no one saw me jump in here.

I don’t feel the whizz of bullets, but that doesn’t mean I’m safe.

I start to army crawl toward the back of the house.

This side isn’t on fire yet, but I can see the clouds of smoke pouring from the fire side where the gunshots were coming from. Those assholes set a trap.

They wanted to burn that place down and drive whoever was inside out so they could pick them off like fish in a barrel.

It’s a dirty tactic. Would we do this? I don’t think Anton would hit a spot with hired workers, not just Abashins, but if he thinks I’ve been kidnapped by them, I really don’t know where he’d draw the line.

He might do just about anything to get me back.

My stomach creeps into my throat at the thought, but I force it down to deal with later. Right now, I just need to find Matvei and get both of us out of here alive. After that, I can sort out who did this and what I need to do about it.

The problem is I don’t see anyone. Not Matvei, Timofey, or Oleg, and definitely not any of the shooters from the other side, which means they could be anywhere.

I pick my head up just enough to scan the nearby bushes for movement.

The yard is so overgrown it blends into the thicket of trees behind it, providing plenty of cover for both sides.

Where would Matvei be? Probably charging headlong at them, I realize, and my throat goes dry. I crawl forward again. There’s a gap between this set of bushes and the brambles I’m aiming for, and I’m not moving at top speed with this ankle, but I’m a sitting duck if I stay here.

After another volley of gunfire, I manage to narrow in on some movement in the trees past the brambles.

It must be one of ours, but I can’t tell if it’s Timofey or Matvei from here.

Too big to be Oleg. In the pause between shots, I dive forward for the bramble bush and brace for the thorns to catch at my clothes.

There’s a rip and my blouse tears, but I don’t stop pushing forward, branches clawing at my face and hair.

Something grabs hold of my ankle, the wounded one, and I let out a yelp before I can bite it back.

“Drop the fucking gun” The man holding me shouts and I spin, not recognizing the voice. He yanks, trying to pull me from the brambles. “Drop it, bitch!”

He’s got one hand in a vise grip around my ankle, digging into the gouge, and the other pointing a gun right at my face. Stupid. Idiot. I must’ve gone right past him without seeing, and now it’s too late to bring my own gun around to shoot him. By the time I draw, he’ll pull the trigger.

“I said drop it!” he shouts again, and I obey.

I don’t recognize him. Any hope that he’s one of mine vanishes, and makes that gun pointing at my face extremely real. I put my hands up behind my head.

The man crouches beside me as a bullet fires, striking the tree beside his head.

“I’ve got your girl!” he yells out, keeping the gun trained on me. “Shoot at me again and I’ll blow her brains out!”

No one shoots. I force myself to breathe in slowly, out slowly, until the adrenaline racing through me lets me think.

If he moves a little closer, I might be able to knock the gun out of his hands.

I’ve trained in self-defense my entire life, and I’ve put my own brothers on the mat a time or two.

Better to risk getting shot than getting taken hostage. Again.

“Get on your knees,” he says, pushing the gun up against my side when I don’t move fast enough. “We’re getting out of here.”

I lever up onto my knees, thorns digging into my bare skin. This is not the right outfit for today’s activities. My flimsy blouse is shredded and my mini skirt is hiked up, leaving my legs exposed to the bush’s spikes. A bulletproof vest would be nice right now. Some pants, too.

“I’ve got a gun to her head,” he warns whoever’s listening. “We’re going to walk out of here. If you try to stop us, I’ll shoot her without another fucking warning!”

I swallow around the lump in my throat. There’s no getting out of this. I’m not going to have an opportunity to knock his gun away.

We make slow progress through the brambles, his gun jutting into my back as he forces me to walk in front. I’m a living shield. Before we break free from the brush, I hear a thump behind me, and the feel of the gun against my lower back vanishes.

“Do you ever do what you’re told?” Matvei’s growl almost brings me to my knees in relief.

I spin, and the gunman is crumpled on the ground, knocked out and bleeding from a wound on the side of his head. Matvei follows up with two quick shots to the man’s chest, then draws me back toward the trees, slinking low.

“There are at least two more,” he says, linking his fingers through mine like he’s worried I’m going to wander off again. “Keep your head down.”

This time, I have no intention of straying from his side. I stick to him and wish I still had my gun so I could be somewhat useful, but here I am getting rescued. Again.

He cuts a path between trees that snakes us back toward the driveway and our parked car.

“Where’s Timofey? And Oleg?” I whisper. My legs feel like they’re made of Jell-O as the adrenaline of having a gun pointed at me starts to fade, and I stumble.

“At the cars.” Three shots ring out, punctuating his words. “Don’t worry about them. We need to get you to safety.”

We near the side of the first car, and that’s when I spot it: movement across the driveway. A man in a dark-colored shirt hunched behind a bush.