Chapter 36
Anton
No. No. No. Mary. I lost her.
The words beat against my skull with every step. My fault. My fucking fault. I should’ve ended this before it began.
I’m already running before the echo of the last shot dies. The bay door is wide open, smoke curling into the night. Tire marks slice the concrete.
Two of Volkov’s men step out from behind a truck—stupid enough to think they can slow me down.
The first gets a bullet to the throat. The second makes it three steps before I snap his neck and keep moving.
Out in the alley, red taillights vanish around the corner. Gone.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
Bootsteps behind me. Controlled. Not enemy.
Dima.
He takes in the mess with one look. “You lost her.”
The words hit harder than the bullet did.
He hisses, already signaling his men to strip weapons and burn IDs. “We’ll clean. You chase.”
I grab the first SUV still running, shove the gear into drive, and floor it.
The alley screams past. Smoke, neon, the reek of fuel.
I grip the wheel, focusing on the road ahead.
Guilt isn’t introspection tonight. It’s a weight behind my ribs, a cold engine. I put it to work. I brought her into this. I brought her close enough to catch a bullet that wasn’t meant for her. That thought thumps like a second engine.
The dash lights smear. I fiddle one-handed for the phone—thumbs on glass, map open.
The map glows on my phone—blue blip, hard left, then straight into the freight yard. Two miles from the hotel, east along Fremont, then a hard left, then the freight yard. Her tracker.
God! Thank you for wearing it.
Her voice cracks through the earpiece at the same time the tracker pings, small and raw.
“Anton—” Breath. Panic threaded in it. “He-he’s going fast. I can’t—”
ETA: two minutes… one.
The freight yard sprawls out ahead; rows of stacked containers, cranes frozen mid-lift, floodlights washing everything in cold white. Diesel in the air, dust and metal under my tires.
The black SUV cuts through the yard, taillights blinking red across steel walls.
I don’t waste a second.
Gun comes up through the open window, one hand on the wheel, the other steady.
“Hold on tight,” I snap into the comm.
No reply. Just her breathing—ragged, terrified.
That’s enough.
I line the shot. One squeeze.
First round glances off the frame—sparks. Second one hits true. The rear tire bursts with a pop that echoes through the metal maze.
The SUV fishtails, skids sideways, slams into a container, flips once, twice—metal screaming, glass raining down like shrapnel.
Then silence.
I kill the engine before it even stops rolling and hit the ground running.
Gun up.
The air reeks of diesel, smoke, blood.
The flipped SUV steams in the floodlight haze, front end crumpled, one wheel still spinning.
“Mary!” I shout, voice cutting through the heat.
Nothing.
Then—a cough. Small, hoarse, alive.
I move.
Smoke rolls low, thick enough to choke on.
I move fast, stepping over shattered glass and twisted steel. The SUV’s on its side, hood steaming, one door hanging by a hinge. The driver’s head is half through the windshield—dead before the airbag finished deploying.
Then I see movements.
Timofey. Crawling out through the passenger window, dragging Mary by the arm like she’s luggage. Her dress is torn—blood streaking down her thigh, heels gone. She’s clutching her stomach, breath coming fast and shallow.
“Let her go,” I snarl.
He laughs, rough and ugly, eyes catching the flicker of firelight.
“You, risking everything for a woman?” He spits to the side, blood mixing with it.
“The Reaper grows soft.” He yanks her upright, forcing her against the crumpled door.
“I knew it was you,” he sneers. “The ghost sniffing around my accounts. The one cleaning up after my messes. You’ve been protecting her for weeks. ”
I shift a step closer, ignoring Timofey, my eyes locked on her.
“Are you hurt?”
She gives the smallest nod, jaw tight, pain written across every line of her face.
“Is this what you’ve got left, Timofey? Dragging her into a war that’s yours to fight?” My eyes lock on him, cold as the barrel aimed at his chest. “What happened to all that power you love to brag about, сука?”
He grins wider.
“Aw…” He hacks up a wet laugh, spitting more red onto the floor. Blood streaks his teeth, pooling in the corner of his mouth. “How romantic. The Reaper with a weakness. Didn’t think I’d live long enough to see it.”
Then he twists his hand in her hair and jerks her forward—hard. She gasps, knees buckling, her scream cutting straight through me.
“Stop,” I bark, stepping closer.
He jams the muzzle of his gun into her ribs. “Don’t. Another inch, and she’s gone.”
I freeze, muscles coiled tight. The sight of her like that—trembling, bleeding, still trying to pull away—makes something inside me fracture.
Timofey’s grin sharpens. “Tsk, tsk, tsk… Igor would love to see this. His favorite soldier losing his balls over a girl.” He laughs, ugly and wet. “You think he ever saw you as more than a leash he could yank?”
I don’t answer. My silence is enough.
He keeps talking, voice turning slick. “You think you’re smart, huh, Anton?
Always two steps ahead. Always cleaning up after everyone else’s mess.
Please.” He yanks Mary closer again, pressing the gun to her jaw now.
“I let her live because I wanted you to come crawling out of whatever hole you sleep in.”
Mary tries to twist free. He slams her back against the metal again, the sound dull and brutal.
I step closer, gun raised. “Let. Her. Go.”
Timofey laughs again, coughing blood. “All this for a girl who doesn’t even know what you are. Igor’s loyal little dog, chasing crumbs while he rots in paranoia.”
He tightens his grip on Mary, drags her half in front of him. “You want to know why I’m done following orders from that old fuck? Because he’s weak. Because he’ll die babbling to ghosts before he ever passes the crown.”
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “And you? You could’ve been a king. Instead, you’re bleeding loyalty for a banker’s whore.”
I take another step. “Careful.”
“Oh, I’m past careful.” He grins wider, wild now. “Tonight was supposed to end with your body in this fucking yard.”
He digs the muzzle of his gun into Mary’s ribs again. She flinches, breath breaking.
“Timofey,” I say, calm as a blade. “You talk too much.”
He sneers. “And you think too slow.”
He jerks her closer, pressing his gun higher.
Mary gasps, “Anton—”
I catch her eyes. One heartbeat, then another. The chaos around us drops away until it’s just that look—the same one she gave me the first time I showed her how to fight back. She doesn’t need words, and I don’t have any left to give. Now, my stare says. Trust me.
Her chest heaves, terror cutting through the dim light, but I see the flicker there—the memory of what I taught her. Weight on the ball of the foot. Heel down hard. Twist and drive.
She moves.
Mary slams her heel into his instep and drops her weight, ramming her elbow back. Timofey snarls, gun jerking just enough—and then she drives her knee straight into his groin.
His howl rips through the night. The gun wavers. That’s all I need.
I fire.
The bullet tears through his hand, flesh and bone bursting red. The pistol clatters to the ground, skidding across the gravel. Timofey staggers back, howling, clutching the ruin of his fingers.
“Run!” I bark.
Mary stumbles toward me, breath hitching. She’s maybe fifteen feet away, close enough I can see the tears streaking down her cheeks. I’m already moving—fast, hard strides toward her—when Timofey lunges.
His boots scrape gravel. He dives for the fallen gun.
“Bitch!”
Time shatters. He rolls, wild-eyed, bleeding and grinning all the same, the barrel swinging up from the dirt. He looks at me. Then at her. That cruel little smirk splits his blood-slicked face.
“Got you,” he hisses.
I don’t think. I grab her and turn, wrapping my body around hers as the shot cracks the air.
It slams into my side—just beneath the ribs—and burns, but the pain doesn’t register yet. All I know is she’s still breathing. Still in my arms.
Her scream tears the night open. “Anton… no…”
Another shot.
This one punches through my shoulder, jerking me forward. My knees give. The ground rushes up and I’m on it, breath knocked from my chest, warmth spilling beneath me.
Timofey’s gun clicks empty. He stares at it, then at us, eyes wild with rage and disbelief.
Something shifts in Mary. I see it even through the blur—the terror draining from her face, leaving something colder in its place.
She crawls toward the ground, fingers shaking but steady as they close around the weight of my Glock.
“Mary—” My voice breaks. I don’t know if she hears me.
She rises, slow but sure, the barrel locked on him.
Timofey laughs, blood running from his hand. “You don’t have the guts.”
The first shot hits his chest.
The second buries itself between his eyes.
His body drops, limp and final, the dirt swallowing the last of his breath.
For a second, there’s only silence, the ringing echo of gunfire still humming in the dark.
Then headlights flood the yard. Tires screech. Voices shout.
Mary drops beside me, her hands on my face, her sobs shaking against my skin.
“Anton! Anton, stay with me! Please—”
My vision tunnels, edges closing in. Her voice is the only thing anchoring me now.
“Anton… please… Don’t you dare—”
Her screams rip through the night again and again, my name breaking apart on her lips as the world tilts and goes dark.