“What if Kozlov finds us first?”
“He won’t. And if he does, he’s outnumbered ten to one.”
A shoe scrapes outside. Both men freeze like they’ve been hit with a live wire.
“Nothing,” Knife Guy whispers.
“Perimeter,” Scarface orders. Knife Guy’s already moving toward the window.
The building explodes into violence before his third step.
The first shot cracks, then shouts and return fire from everywhere. I roll off the chair I’m tied to, teeth jarring on concrete, clear of the center.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Scarface scrambles for his gun. Knife Guy dumps rounds through broken windows.
More gunfire erupts from every direction at once, accompanied by the crack of flashbangs.
Through the chaos, a voice cuts clean: “Where is she?”
Dmitri.
Scarface turns, his gun halfway up. He doesn’t have a chance to fire. A single round punches through his forehead, and he drops like a cut marionette.
Knife Guy lasts two seconds before three rounds stitch his chest. He topples over crates, and his weapon skitters away.
The gunfire dies abruptly, replaced by the sound of boots on concrete and voices calling out confirmations. I struggle against the zip ties, but they’re too tight to slip.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
“Boss, she’s over here!”
Dmitri fills the doorway, suit torn, eyes bright with murder. He takes in the scene—two dead men, me tied to an overturned chair with blood on my face and clothes—and clenches his jaw.
“Are you hurt?” He’s already on his knees, slicing the zip ties with a knife that wasn’t there a second ago.
“I’m fine. Scared, but fine.”
“Good.” He lifts me. His touch is gentle, but his eyes aren’t. “We need to go. Now.”
“Wait.” I scan the warehouse. “They knew things about me. About my past. They kept saying ‘handler.’”
Dmitri goes very still. “Word for word, Katya. Don’t leave anything out.”
“They said I’m not who I think I am. That someone’s been looking for me since I disappeared. They insinuated my marriage to you is fake.”
The last part comes out like an accusation, and I watch his face carefully for a reaction. What I see there isn’t surprise or denial; it’s something almost like guilt.
“Katya—”
“Tell me the truth. Is our marriage fake?”
His jaw ticks. Silence stretches, heavy enough to bruise. His hand tightens on mine until it almost hurts, and that’s his only answer.
Boris hits the doorway, blood on his shirt. “Boss, we need to move now. Police in ten. More coming from the north.”
“More of who?”
