I slow my advance but don't stop completely. "You'll die too," I point out, my voice deadly calm.
He laughs, the sound brittle and humorless. "Perhaps. But my operation is already compromised. Better to destroy everything than let you seize it."
My eyes flick to the shipping container behind him. My whole world is locked inside that metal box.
"Let the women go," I negotiate, buying time as I assess options. "Your quarrel is with us, not them."
“Women?” Kovalev's face twists with genuine confusion. "They're product. Merchandise. Some worth quite a lot."
Red clouds my vision at his words. "You're going to die today," I tell him, my voice as cold as winter midnight. "The only question is how much it hurts before you go."
Something in my tone must convince him because fear flickers across his face for the first time. He raises the detonator higher.
"Stay back. I'll press it. I swear I will!"
I can tell he means it. Men like Kovalev, they'd rather destroy everything they’ve built than lose it to someone else. I need to be faster—and I am.
My hand moves with almost preternatural speed, the throwing knife leaving my fingers before he can blink. It embeds in his wrist, causing him to scream and drop the detonator. I'm on him before it hits the ground, driving him backward with the force of my tackle.
We crash to the concrete, my weight pinning him as my fist connects with his face once, twice, a third time. Blood sprays from his broken nose, his split lip. He's a skilled fighter—he gets a knee up between us, pushing me back enough to land a solid blow to my ribs.
The pain barely registers. I'm beyond feeling anything but the need to destroy him for touching what's mine. As we grapple, rolling across the concrete, I catch glimpses of the battle around us—Ghost and the brothers methodically eliminating the remaining guards, Cipher rushing to the container, Blade covering his approach.
Kovalev manages to get his good hand on a knife from his belt, slashing wildly. The blade catches my arm, slicing through leather and skin. I ignore it, focusing on controlling his knife hand, twisting it until the bones in his wrist grind together. He howls in pain, but even injured, he's dangerous. He headbutts me, stars exploding behind my eyes as his forehead connects with my nose.
I roll with the momentum, using it to fling him off me. We both scramble to our feet, circling each other like predators. Blood drips from my arm, from his face.
He spits crimson onto the concrete.
I watch his body language, waiting for the tell that will telegraph his next move. It comes when his eyes flick briefly to something behind me—a distraction tactic. I anticipate his lunge, stepping into it rather than away. The move surprises him, disrupting his timing just enough for me to catch his knife hand and drive my knee into his solar plexus. The air leaves his lungs in a rush, and as he gasps for breath, I twist his arm with brutal efficiency until the knife clatters to the floor.
I grab him by the throat, lifting him until his feet barely touch the ground.
"You took my woman," I tell him, tightening my grip as he claws ineffectively at my hand. "You put your hands on what's mine."
"Business," he chokes out, face purpling. "Just business."
Something snaps inside me at the casual dismissal of Luna's humanity, his lack of concern for her suffering. With a roar that barely sounds human, I slam him against the nearest container, once, twice, his head bouncing off the metal with sickening force. His eyes roll back, but I don't release him.
"Saint! We got her, brother,” Blade's voice cuts through the red haze of my rage. "Container's open. We've got Luna and four other females.".
I look at the pathetic figure dangling from my grip, barely conscious now. I don't think. I need to get to my woman. I press my weapon under his chin.
"For Luna," I whisper, and pull the trigger.
Inside the container, I find Cipher and Blade helping women out one by one. They're all in rough shape—dirty, bruised, dehydrated—but moving under their own power.
And then I see her. Luna, my Luna, supported by a blonde girl as they step hesitantly into the light. One of her eyes is swollen nearly shut, dried blood cakes her temple, and she moves with the careful steps of someone in pain. But she's alive.
Our eyes meet, and the world stops spinning. Everything—the gunfire still echoing in distant parts of the facility, the moans of the wounded, the shouts of my brothers securing the area—fades away. There's only Luna, battered but unbowed, her good eye filling with tears of relief as she sees me.
"Saint," she whispers, her voice cracking.
I cross the distance between us in three long strides, gathering her gently into my arms, mindful of her injuries. She melts against me, her small body shaking with silent sobs.
"I've got you," I murmur into her hair, one hand cradling the back of her head. "I've got you, preciosa. You're safe now."
"I knew you'd come," she says against my chest, her fingers clutching my cut like she'll never let go. "I told them you'd find me."
