Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
She pauses without turning.
“I’m not interested in fighting with you,” she says.
That stops me in my tracks. Why the hell would we be fighting?
“I am not interested in fighting either,” I answer. “So, please, tell me why we would be.”
She finally turns around to face me.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You tell me, Viktor,” she says coldly.
I watch her face carefully. She’s truly angry at me for something that I’ve done or haven’t done.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I tell her truthfully. “What’s happening here? Talk to me.”
She holds my gaze, and I can see the decision behind it. She isn’t deciding what to say. She’s deciding whether I deserve the truth.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she finally says, before turning back on her heel and heading toward the kitchen.
I decide not to follow her. Maybe she isn’t actually mad at me. Maybe the pregnancy hormones are just getting the best of her and she needs space. Whether or not that’s the truth, it’s the best I can come up with at the moment. As much as I hate to admit it, there are more important things to worry about right now than Anya’s mood swings.
Mikhail’s men aren’t going to wait for me to slip up. He’s actively searching the city for me, and he’s going to find me eventually. I’m making every effort to disappear with Anya until this blows over. Even then, I have to keep her out of his grasp. I will not leave my child without a mother.
I go to check the control room monitors. I check the exterior feeds. I check the patrol rotation logs. I check the back garden gate camera and the side gate camera and the driveway feed. Everything looks normal, which is a relief. One less thing to worry about, anyway.
My phone buzzes once, then stops. It’s Sergei sending a short update that says nothing new. No fresh sightings. No confirmed movement near the neighborhood. No fresh pressure points that require immediate response.
I keep circling back to the same thought. Something changed after we were together. Did someone say something to her? Did she get in her own head? Has Mikhail found a way to get a message to her?
I sit up straighter and consider the thought. He managed to get that dress to the old safe house. He knows how to get a message to us. Who’s to say that he didn’t slip a note in somehow? That would certainly explain the change in her.
Sitting at the desk in the control room, I force myself to focus on the screens. A car passes the end of the block and keeps moving. A neighbor pulls into a driveway. A dog walker crosses the street.
The feed shifts slightly. It takes my brain a second to register what’s wrong. The angle from the front gate camera is different. It’s subtle. The camera isn’t blacked out. It isn’t flickering. It’s pointing a few degrees too far left.
Someone’s messed with it. My body reacts before my mind fully processes the thought. I stand and reach for my gun. The radio crackles once. There’s no voice. There’s a short burst of sound that could be breathing, then it cuts out.
That’s when the first gunshot hits. It’s inside the perimeter and close. It’s followed by a second and third shot. They’re both controlled, not panicked or defensive. Whoever is shooting the gun is not on my side, and they’re already too close.
I hit the radio’s button. “Lock down the stairwell. Confirm contacts and hold the second floor.”
The reply comes fragmented through static, but the meaning is clear. “They’re coming through the back.”
I move immediately through the hallway toward the kitchen. I need to guard Anya and get her out of here, but she’s not there. The kitchen door is ajar.
Cold air pours in. One of my men is on the floor by the back entrance, eyes open, blood spreading beneath him. His gun is gone. That means the attacker took it or kicked it away. Either way, it means the attacker is disciplined enough to reduce variables.
A second guard is braced behind the kitchen island, firing toward the open back door in short bursts. His face is tight, jaw clenched, eyes focused.
“Where are they?” I ask him.
“Two came through the garden,” he replies without looking at me. “Three more came through the side gate.”
That’s five at minimum, and that’s just what he saw. This is another coordinated effort. I push past him and take a position near the doorway, using the frame as cover. I can see movement in the back garden. Shadows behind hedges. A figure shifting behind a decorative wall.
They aren’t firing blindly into the house. They’re firing to pin my men in place while another group moves.
“Where is Anya?” I ask him tightly. “Did you see her?”