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 went upstairs as soon as she heard the first gunshot,” he tells me, never taking his eyes off the back door.
My throat tightens as I go to find her. The front hallway is chaos. One of my guards is dragging an injured man toward the sitting room, blood trailing on the floor. Another is pressed against the wall near the stairwell, gun up, eyes wide.
“They’re inside,” he says.
“I know,” I answer.
A masked attacker appears near the base of the stairs, weapon raised. I fire before he does. He goes down hard, his body folding in a way that tells me it was a critical hit. He still tries to move. That’s when I realize he’s wearing a bulletproof vest.
I cross the distance and shoot again, higher, through the throat. He drops fully, gun slipping from his hand.
“Hold this line,” I tell my guard. “Do not let anyone up.”
He nods. I take the stairs two at a time. My lungs pull tight as I climb. My pulse hammers. My grip stays steady because I don’t have the luxury of shaking now. The second-floor landing smells like gunpowder. The hallway light flickers as if it took a hit.
A body is slumped near the banister. One of mine. Blood streaks on the wall behind him. His head is at an odd angle that tells me there’s no saving him.
I don’t stop to check. I hear noise from the far end of the hall, the sound of metal on metal. A lock being hit. It sounds like it’s coming from Anya’s room. I move faster.
Two attackers are at the door. One is braced with a tool, slamming it into the latch. The other is positioned outward with a gun, covering the hallway.
When he sees me, he raises his weapon. I shoot him before he can fire. He drops to the ground, hitting the man at the door. He turns, tool still in his hands, his eyes widening under the mask. I shoot him in the chest.
He staggers back in a way that tells me he’s also wearing a vest. I close the distance and put a shot into his leg. He collapses to the ground, but he doesn’t go down without a fight. He tries to raise his gun, but I put a shot into his face before he can get the chance to do anything.
I turn toward Anya’s door. The handle is damaged and the latch is bent. The frame has deep gouges where the tool hit. I grab the handle and shove it open.
The room is wrecked. The nurse’s supplies are knocked over. The trash can is tipped on its side. The nightstand drawer is pulled open like someone searched it. The bed is rumpled.
Anya is nowhere to be seen. My chest tightens so hard it feels like a physical injury.
I scan the room anyway because my brain refuses to accept the conclusion. The bathroom door is open, and it’s completely empty. Same with the closet. The window, though, is open. I rush out to the balcony, and find nothing but a bloody handprint on the frame.
The sight makes my vision narrow. I let out a sound that isn’t quite a scream and doesn’t really feel human. Footsteps pound up the stairs behind me. Sergei appears in the doorway, gun in hand, face tight and grim. There’s blood on his sleeve. He looks at the wreck of the room, then at me.
“Did they take her?” he asks.
“Yes,” I hiss.
Sergei’s jaw clenches. “We lost three men downstairs. One is injured but breathing. The attackers pulled back fast once they got what they came for.”
I stare at the blood on balcony, and hear a roaring in my ears. I know I should care about the men, but I just can’t. The only thought that I can concentrate on is the one resounding over and over again in my head. Anya is gone. They took her.
“You know she fought like hell,” Sergei says quietly, as if he’s trying to comfort me. “We’ll get her back.”
“We’d better,” I say hollowly. “Or I’ll destroy the whole damn borough.”
22
ANYA
The first thing I notice in the pain in my ribs. I feel the ache under the bruise, deep enough that it makes breathing difficult. I try anyway, slow and shallow, because the second I pull in a deeper breath, my side flashes hot and my vision tightens around the edges.
My stomach follows right after. The nausea hits hard and familiar, completely indifferent to where I am or what just happened to me. It’s been getting worse for weeks, but I think what I feel now has much more to do with the hate that’s rising in me. Or, possibly, the fear. I don’t want to dwell on that, though. If I let myself, it will consume me.
My gaze shifts to the nightstand and lands on a porcelain bowl placed neatly within arm’s reach. The placement isn’t accidental. Someone expected me to be sick, and someone made sure I would have what I needed without being able to leave the room.