“She's trying to lose them,” Sergey mutters, his fingers gripping the steering wheel. “She's going to get them killed.”
Not tonight. Not while I'm breathing.
“Pull ahead. Cut them off at the intersection,” I command, already calculating angles and timing.
Sergey doesn't hesitate. He swerves into the right lane, tires screeching against the asphalt as we gain ground. The Mercedes responds like the precision machine it is, engine roaring as we close the distance. I see Amelia's brake lights flash in the distance. She's turning onto a side street, probably hoping to lose her pursuers in the maze of residential roads that branch off from the main thoroughfares.
But the SUV doesn't stop. It follows relentlessly and patiently as death itself.
“They're going to try to box her in,” Sergey snaps, his voice tight with concentration. “They're getting desperate.”
I roll down the window, pull out my gun, and steady it on the edge of the door. How many times have I held this gun? How many problems have I solved with its help? Tonight, it will solve one more.
“Block them,” I order, my voice cutting through the rush of wind and engine noise.
Sergey floors it. The tires scream as we cut the SUV off, forcing it to halt in the middle of the intersection. Our car slams to a stop with enough force to throw me forward, but I'm already moving. The doors of the SUV fly open, and two men jump out, weapons drawn.
I don't hesitate.
The first shot cracks through the air, shattering the passenger's window. Glass explodes into the street like a spray of shrapnel, catching the streetlights as it falls. The sound echoes off the surrounding buildings, a violent snap that will have neighbors calling the police within minutes.
I squeeze the trigger again, this time aiming for the hood. The bullet punches through metal with a satisfying thunk, hitting something vital in the engine compartment. Steam begins to rise from beneath the hood, and I know the vehicle won't be going anywhere.
The second man fires back, bullets pinging off the side of our car with metallic screams. One passes close enough to my head that I feel the displacement of air, but I don't flinch. This isn't my first gunfight, and it won't be my last.
Sergey ducks behind the dashboard, his own weapon appearing in his hand quickly. “We've got civilians!” he shouts over the sound of gunfire.
He's right. Through the chaos, I can see people diving for cover, screaming, running. An elderly man stumbles and falls behind a parked car. A woman grabs her child and sprints toward a storefront. This is exactly the attention we don't need, but Elena's life hangs in the balance.
“Then end it now,” I growl, adjusting my aim.
Sergey leans over and fires twice. Both bullets hit center mass, the sound sharp and final. One of the men drops immediately, his weapon clattering across the asphalt. The other, wounded but not down, scrambles back into the SUV.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer with each passing second. Miami PD is coming fast, drawn by the reports of gunfire in what should be a quiet residential area.
“Go,” I thunder, holstering my weapon. “We need to get out of here now!”
But even as Sergey throws the car into gear, I see Amelia's Lexus skidding to a stop halfway down the street. The passenger door flies open before the vehicle has fully stopped, and Elena emerges like she's stepping out of a nightmare into another one.
I'm out of my seat before Sergey has fully parked, my feet hitting the pavement with enough force to send vibrations up through my legs. Elena stands frozen in the street, her face pale as paper, her breathing ragged and uneven. She's staring at the scene around us, the broken glass, the blood, the man who won't be getting up again.
“You followed me,” she whispers, her voice small and lost in a way that makes my chest tight.
“You almost died,” I shoot back, closing the distance between us in three long strides. “Again.”
The word lingers, raw and exposed, dragging every unspoken truth into the space between us. I grab her shoulders, my hands tightening before I can stop them. She feels fragile beneath my palms, breakable in a way that terrifies me more than any enemy I've ever faced. The urge to pull her against my chest, to shield her from everything ugly and dangerous in the world, is almost overwhelming.
“This is over, Elena,” I announce, my voice rough with emotions I'm not equipped to handle. “You're coming with me. No more debates. No more refusals.”
She looks like she wants to argue, her mouth opening to deliver what I'm sure will be another stubborn refusal. But then she glances over my shoulder to the fallen man on the ground, to the blood pooling beneath him like spilled paint. The reality of what just happened, what almost happened to her, seems to hit her all at once.
Her lips part. No sound comes out. The fight drains from her shoulders, replaced by acceptance. Finally, she nods.
And just like that, I have her. But I don't feel like I've won anything. Not when her eyes are full of betrayal and fear. Not when her body trembles in my arms like she's fighting not to fall apart. Not when I know that protecting her means pulling her deeper into a world that's already claimed too much.
This is the cost of touching fire. It burns everything it comes into contact with, consuming both the good and the bad until nothing remains but ash and regret.
11
