70. Chapter 70
70
Bella
T he helicopter blades slice through the afternoon air, a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that matches my racing heart. Through the tinted windows, California stretches below us—golden hills, winding coastline, everything bathed in sunshine that feels obscenely cheerful given our situation.
“Is this a Black Hawk?” Elena asks, fingers gripping the leather seat as the chopper banks sharply to the left. “Because if I’m going to die in a helicopter crash, I’d at least like to know what kind.”
“It’s an AW139,” Nikolai supplies, his voice perfectly calm despite the circumstances. “Twin-engine, fifteen-passenger capacity, cruise speed 165 knots.”
Elena blinks at him. “Okay, mini-Wikipedia. Thanks for that.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. Even now, fleeing from who knows what kind of danger, Elena refuses to be anything but Elena.
Across from me, Yelena sits rigidly upright, one arm around Lev, who fidgets against the restraints of his seat belt. Nikolai sits beside them, his face a mask of concentration as he watches the navigation display. Alya and Lila are squeezed in next to me, Alya’s small hand clutching mine like a lifeline.
“Is Papa going to be okay?” she whispers, her eyes wide with worry.
My chest tightens. “Of course he is,” I say, hoping my voice sounds more confident than I feel. “Your papa is the strongest, smartest man I know.”
“He’s a warrior,” Lev adds fiercely, chin jutting forward in a way that reminds me so powerfully of Konstantin that it hurts. “Nothing can hurt him.”
Viktor, seated near the cockpit, keeps his eyes trained out the window, scanning constantly. His posture is coiled tension, one hand resting on his holstered weapon. Beside him, Oleg consults a tablet, his weathered face creased with concentration.
“What happened?” Julian asks for perhaps the third time since we were rushed onto the helicopter. “Why are we—?”
“We’ll explain when we land,” Oleg cuts him off, voice clipped. “Safety first, questions later.”
Julian exchanges a look with me, concern evident in his eyes. At 17, he’s old enough to understand that something very serious is happening but young enough to still look to me for reassurance. Reassurance I don’t have.
A cramp seizes my abdomen—sharp, sudden—making me wince. My hand instinctively goes to my stomach.
Elena notices immediately. “Hey,” she says quietly, leaning closer. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I whisper back. “Just stress.”
Her eyes narrow. “Bella—”
“Not now, Elena. Please.”
She assesses me for a moment, then nods once. “Alright. But remember what I always say?”
“That tequila solves most problems?”
“Besides that.” She takes my free hand, squeezing it. “Don’t borrow trouble from tomorrow when today’s got enough to spare. Whatever happens with Konstantin, whatever’s happening now—we deal with it one minute at a time.”
For someone who makes a living writing about sex positions and relationship drama, Elena can be surprisingly profound. I squeeze her hand back, grateful for her presence. The thought of facing this alone—of shepherding Julian and Lila through whatever danger we’re running from—is almost unbearable.
“Mrs. Belov,” Oleg announces, his voice carrying over the rotor noise. “We’ll be landing in three minutes. When we touch down, follow Viktor directly to the entrance. No stopping, no questions.”
Yelena’s gaze catches mine across the cabin. Her face is composed as always, but there’s something in her eyes I can’t quite read. Knowledge? Judgment? For a wild moment, I wonder if she regrets giving me that ultimatum in the garden.
Two weeks to decide. Terminate the pregnancy or leave with money and never tell Konstantin. Neither option feels possible now.
The helicopter begins its descent, banking toward what appears to be a sheer cliff face. My stomach lurches—both from the maneuver and from fear.
“Holy shit,” Elena breathes, peering out the window. “Is that a helipad on the edge of a cliff? Because that’s some James Bond villain real estate right there.”
She’s right. Jutting out from the rocky face is a small landing platform, barely visible until we’re almost upon it. As we get closer, I see heavy security doors built directly into the cliff itself.
“Papa says it’s the safest place we have,” Nikolai says, eyes fixed on the landing pad. “Brought us here for drills. But only to the lower levels. Never seen the whole place.” “Your father had it constructed five years ago,” Yelena tells him. “After the Moscow incident.”
No one elaborates on what the “Moscow incident” was, and I don’t ask.
The helicopter settles onto the pad with a gentle bump, its blades slowing as the engines wind down. Viktor is immediately on his feet, moving to the door.
“Move quickly,” he instructs, sliding the door open. The wind whips inside, cold and fierce at this elevation. “Stay close.”
We file out, Viktor leading the way, Oleg bringing up the rear. Julian sticks close to Lila, one hand protectively on her shoulder. I keep Alya beside me, my arm around her small frame.
The helipad connects to a short walkway that leads directly to a set of reinforced metal doors built into the cliff face. They look heavy enough to withstand a missile strike.
Viktor places his palm on a scanner, then leans in for a retinal scan. The doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a brightly lit corridor carved directly into the rock.
“Welcome to Eagle Point,” a woman’s voice greets us as we enter. She stands in the corridor—tall, platinum blonde, with sharp features and sharper eyes. “I’m Dr. Sorokina, facility director.”
“Medical status?” Oleg asks her immediately.
“All systems operational. Infirmary prepped. Security at Level One.”
Viktor nods curtly. “Tour later. Security checkpoints first.”
Dr. Sorokina leads us deeper into the facility—a labyrinth of corridors, security checkpoints, and reinforced doors. Each section requires different access codes, biometric scans, or physical keys.
“This place is insane,” Elena whispers to me as we pass through what must be the third or fourth security door. “Like, apocalypse-ready insane.”
She’s not wrong. As we move deeper, I begin to grasp the scale of Eagle Point. The facility is massive—carved directly into the cliff, extending deep into the mountain. We pass medical suites, communications centers, what looks like an armory, and residential quarters.
“Children’s rooms are on the east wing,” Dr. Sorokina informs us, leading us down another corridor. “Everything has been prepared according to protocol.”
The “children’s wing” turns out to be a suite of interconnected bedrooms, each personalized for its intended occupant. Alya’s room has her favorite stuffed animals already placed on the bed. Lev and Nikolai’s room has books, games, even their preferred snacks stocked in small refrigerators.
“You’ve been here before?” I ask them, surprised by how comfortable they seem in this fortress.
“Drills,” Nikolai explains. “Every six months. But we’ve never stayed overnight.”
The thought of these children—8 and 12 years old—practicing evacuation drills and memorizing security protocols makes my heart ache. What kind of life demands that level of preparedness from children?
“Your room is through here, Mrs. Belov,” Dr. Sorokina says, opening another door to reveal a master suite. “Mr. and Mrs. Marquez, you’re adjacent.”
“Whoa, we’re not—” Elena begins.
“We’re not married,” Julian finishes, looking mortified. “She’s my sister’s friend.”
Dr. Sorokina’s expression doesn’t change. “My apologies. We’ll arrange separate accommodations.”
“I’ll bunk with Bella,” Elena says quickly. “Julian can have the other room.”
Yelena watches this exchange with thinly veiled disdain.
“I’ll be in my quarters,” she announces. “Children, you should rest.”
“But we’re not tired,” Lev protests.
“Rest doesn’t mean sleep,” she tells him firmly. “It means quiet activities. Books. Perhaps those electronic games you’re so fond of.”
Lev looks like he might argue, but one sharp look from his grandmother silences him.
“I want to stay with Mommy,” Alya says suddenly, her small hand finding mine again.
The word sends a jolt through me—both warmth and fear. I glance at Yelena, whose lips thin almost imperceptibly.
“Of course you can, sweetheart,” I tell Alya, ignoring Yelena’s disapproval.
An hour later, we’ve settled into an uneasy rhythm. The children are in the common area of their wing, playing a board game that Nikolai produced from somewhere. Julian and Lila have joined them, my brother seemingly determined to keep everyone’s spirits up with bad jokes and card tricks.
Elena and I stand in the kitchen—a sleek, modern space with high-end appliances and a fully stocked pantry.
“Want to tell me what’s really going on?” she asks, leaning against the counter as I make tea I don’t actually want.
“I don’t know much more than you do,” I say honestly. “Something about a bombing. Some rival family. Konstantin sending us here for safety.”
“Not that,” she says, lowering her voice. “The baby. The cramps. The fact that you look like you’re about to shatter into a million pieces.”
I set the kettle down with a clunk. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.”
“Elena—”
“No, Bella. We’re in a freaking bunker carved into a mountain because, apparently, your husband has the kind of enemies who plant bombs in churches. This is not the time for ‘I’m fine.’”
She’s right. I know she’s right. But admitting how afraid I am—for the baby, for Konstantin, for all of us—feels like it might break whatever tenuous control I’m maintaining.
“I’m scared,” I whisper finally. “I’m scared that something’s happening to the baby. I’m scared that Konstantin is in danger. I’m scared that I’ve put you and Julian and Lila in the crosshairs of… whatever this is.”
Elena’s expression softens. She crosses to me, wrapping her arms around me in a fierce hug.
“Listen to me. We’re going to get through this. All of us. Including that stubborn little bean growing inside you.”
I laugh through sudden tears. “Stubborn little bean?”
“Well, it is half you and half Konstantin. That’s like the genetic formula for stubbornness.”
Before I can respond, the kitchen door bursts open. Viktor staggers in, blood streaming from a wound on his upper arm, his gun drawn.
“Get down!” he shouts, just as the sound of gunfire erupts somewhere in the facility.
Elena and I drop to the floor, my heart thundering in my chest.
“What’s happening?” I demand, panic rising like bile. “The children—”
“Secure,” Viktor says grimly, moving to the kitchen’s inner door and locking it. “Oleg has them in the panic room.”
“How is this possible?” Elena asks, her usual humor completely gone. “We’re in a fortress inside a mountain!”
Viktor’s face is a mask of cold fury as he checks his weapon. “Someone gave them the access codes. We’ve been compromised.”
“By who?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“Doesn’t matter now,” he says, pulling three handguns from a hidden compartment beneath the kitchen island. He hands one to each of us. “Both of you know how to use these?”
Elena nods, surprising me.
Viktor barely acknowledges this, already moving to Yelena, who stands frozen in the doorway. “Ma’am, take this. Safety off, point, and shoot. Aim for center mass.”
Yelena takes the weapon with steady hands. For the first time, I glimpse the steel beneath her polished exterior. This woman was not always just the Pakhan’s wife.
“How many?” she asks Viktor, her voice clinical.
“At least twelve. Maybe more.” He presses a hand to his earpiece. “Communications are down. We’re on our own.”
The gunfire is getting closer now. Shouts echo through the corridors.
Fuck. No. No. No.
Please, God. No.
“We need to get to the children,” I say, rising with the gun clutched in my trembling hand.
“The panic room is locked from the inside,” Viktor says. “Oleg will protect them with his life.”
“That’s not good enough,” I snap, fear making my voice sharp. “Those are my—” I stop, catching myself. “Those children are my responsibility now.”
Viktor assesses me for a moment, then nods once. “Secondary route. Through the ventilation system. It’s tight, but you’ll fit.”
“I’m coming with you,” Elena says immediately.
“No,” I tell her. “Stay with Yelena. I need to know you’re safe.”
“And I need to know you’re not crawling through air ducts alone while armed men storm the place!” She looks at Viktor. “Show us both.”
A crash sounds from the corridor outside, followed by more gunfire. Viktor makes a split-second decision.
“This way. Now.”
He leads us to a utility closet, revealing a ventilation grate behind the shelving unit. “Straight for twenty meters, then left. You’ll find an access panel above the panic room. Three knocks, pause, two more. Oleg will know it’s friendly.”
“What about you?” I ask.
Viktor checks his weapon again. “I’ll buy you time.”
Before I can protest, the kitchen door explodes inward. Viktor shoves us into the closet, slamming it shut behind us as gunfire erupts.
Elena and I scramble into the ventilation shaft, her hands shaking as she secures the grate behind us. We crawl forward in the cramped space, the sounds of battle fading behind us.
“Bella,” Elena whispers as we navigate the metal tunnel. “If we die here, I’m going to be so pissed at you.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. “Noted.”
We reach the junction Viktor described, turning left as instructed. Up ahead, I can see light filtering through another grate.
Voices drift up from below—unfamiliar, speaking rapid Russian. I freeze, signaling Elena to stop.
Through the grate, I can see part of a room. Men in tactical gear move efficiently through the space, weapons drawn. And at the center of it all, directing them with imperious gestures, is Tatiana.
My blood runs cold.
“Find the children,” she orders in accented English. “No one else matters. Kill anyone who gets in your way.”
“And the American woman?” one of the men asks. “Belov’s wife?”
Tatiana’s laugh is chilling. “Especially her.”
Another figure steps into view, and my heart stops.
Irina.
Beside me, Elena’s breathing has gone shallow, her knuckles white around her gun.
“We need to move,” I mouth silently, fighting back the fear threatening to paralyze me.
My mind is a storm of questions, each one slamming into me harder than the last.
How the hell did I get here? How did I drag Lila and Julian into this? Elena? And the baby inside me? We inch forward, away from the grate, toward where Viktor said the panic room access would be.
Another turn. Another grate. I press my face to the slats, eyes straining to see through the narrow gaps.
A small, windowless room comes into view. Oleg stands guard, weapon drawn, his jaw clenched tight. Behind him, the children are huddled together. Julian has positioned himself in front of Lila and the younger kids, shoulders squared, jaw set — looking far too old for 17.
I tap the pattern Viktor told us—three knocks, pause, two more.
Oleg’s head snaps up, his gun immediately training on the grate.
“Identify,” he demands.
“It’s Bella,” I whisper urgently. “And Elena. Let us in.”
Relief flashes across his weathered face. He reaches up, unlatching the grate. “Quickly.”
We drop down into the panic room, Elena landing with surprising grace beside me.
“Mommy!” Alya runs to me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Are the bad people here?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” I tell her; no point in lying. “But we’re going to be okay.”
“Where’s Viktor?” Oleg asks sharply.
“Holding them off,” Elena answers. “There’s at least a dozen of them. And Tatiana’s here. And—” She glances at the children, hesitating.
“Irina,” I finish quietly, watching Oleg’s face pale. “She’s with them.”
The name sends a ripple through the room. Lev and Nikolai exchange glances, their expressions unreadable. Alya’s grip on me tightens.
“Mama?” she whispers, the word barely audible.
My heart breaks for her—for all of them. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Oleg’s jaw works as he processes this information. “The panic room is secure. Double-reinforced steel, separate air supply. They can’t get in without the code.”
“Unless they already have it,” Julian points out grimly. “They got into the facility somehow.”
As if on cue, the panel beside the door beeps. Once. Twice. Someone is entering the code.
Oleg’s expression hardens. “Everyone back. Against the wall.”
He positions himself in front of the door, weapon raised. I push the children behind me, my own gun trained on the entrance.
The final beep sounds. The door slides open.
And there she stands—Irina Belova, the woman whose children now call me “Mommy,” whose husband’s baby grows inside me. Her smile is cold, triumphant.
“Hello, children,” she says softly. “Mama’s home.”