Chapter 42
GABBY
Judging by the look on Ruth’s face, Peter was the last person she’d expected to walk into this filthy warehouse. Her whole body jerks at the sight of him, like someone yanked an invisible leash. For just a split second, panic flashes across her features for the first time since I arrived.
I crane my neck as far as the ropes will allow, enough to see him through the window. He’s alone. No bodyguards flanking him, no crew. Just Peter.
But I can see movement around the warehouse. More Irishmen. A lot of them—a dozen, maybe. Though it’s hard to count when they’re all in black and moving around in the shadows. It looks like Ruth called in half her damn army.
Peter stands alone, broad-shouldered, cold-eyed. Those are my eyes; I see it so clearly now. He’s totally fearless. His gaze sweeps the place, slow and surgical, until it lands on the office. He spots Ruth.
“Where is she?” he calls out to her.
Ruth’s spine straightens. “Who?”
“You know who. Gabriella. My men were supposed to bring her here.”
My eyes widen. I open my mouth to scream, because this is my one and only chance.
However, before even a bit of breath can pass my lips, one of Ruth’s men slaps a huge hand over my mouth so hard it presses my lips against my teeth.
I scream against his palm, but it’s muffled and useless.
The scream vibrates in my skull, all the power of my lungs behind it. But not a bit of sound escapes.
I struggle and thrash, but it doesn’t do me any good. The bindings hold me in place, and the goon prevents me from making any noise.
Ruth’s lips part in a perfect, practiced mask of confusion. “Your men? They never arrived. I was just about to call you about it, actually.”
I can still see him, though he hasn’t yet seen me.
Peter’s jaw ticks, I can see it from where I’m seated. No anger—just calculation. “Is that so.”
His question doesn’t go up at the end. It’s more of a statement than anything.
“Yes,” Ruth says. “We’ve been waiting for hours.”
Peter lifts a brow. “Then why,” he says slowly, “does the tracker I placed on one of their phones ping in the field behind your warehouse?”
Ruth’s face freezes in an expression of tight surprise. Not a single blink—not a single breath.
Busted.
Her eyes flick sideways. Just once, just a hair.
Peter’s voice drops even lower than it already was. “What are you doing, Ruth? Who are you up there with?”
I’m excited, just a little, at the prospect of being saved. But at the same time, I know that a single shot could end him where he stands. Ruth would just have to get a little unnerved, and…
“What am I doing?” she echoes, laughing like it’s all some silly misunderstanding. “Peter, darling, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in some meeting?”
She flicks her gaze over her shoulder, making eye contact with one of her men. She gives him a frantic nod, mouthing now! He hurries out of the room.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I’m here,” he says, “to understand why you appear to be in the process of stabbing me in the back.”
Ruth seems more confident now. It’s totally obvious to me that Peter has only a few seconds to live if he doesn’t do something. “Oh, well, Peter—you want to know why it looks like I’m stabbing you in the back? Because that’s precisely what I’m—”
A gunshot cracks. My eyes widen, then squeeze shut. Did she do it? Did she shoot Peter?
I open my eyes and look for him.
No.
He’s still standing.
But who?
My question is answered by a low thud. One of the Irish guards near the back door drops like a bag of sand, revealing a spray of blood on the crates stacked behind him.
I flinch so hard the chair underneath me skids, the groaning of metal on metal filling the air. The goon behind me lets out a shit as he tightens his hand over my mouth.
Ruth reels back, eyes wide. “What the—?”
Another shot, then another. The sound is different. It’s not the boom the way a gunshot would sound in the warehouse, echoing off the walls. It’s distant. Sharper.
There’s a sniper outside. There has to be.
Men shout at one another, scrambling for cover.
One of the overhead lights bursts, raining down sparks.
Ruth dives sideways, grabbing the arm of my chair and dragging me down with her.
The entire chair tips, crashing onto its side.
I land on my shoulder instead of my head, but the pain is incredible all the same.
“Get her up!” Ruth screams as she scrambles to her feet.
Two men hurry to my side. One of them slices the ropes binding my wrists, the other yanks me to my feet.
“Hey! Easy!” The words barely get out. My lungs seize up. Everything feels so surreal and dizzy.
Now that I’m standing, I can see more of the warehouse floor, which allows me to see something out of the corner of my eye. Through one of the side entrances storms a flood of armed figures.
Peter’s men.
Peter’s plan clicks into view—come in alone, the perfect distraction. Then attack.
A moment of silence, then a goddamn war detonates. Automatic fire rattles the warehouse, crates exploding. Pop-pop-pop. Someone screams. Someone else lets out a cry silenced halfway through by a gunshot. The air fills with the horribly familiar scent of gunfire, acrid and metallic.
Before I can come up with a plan to use the chaos to get the hell out of there, Ruth grabs me, pulling me tight against her chest. She’s strong, surprisingly so.
“We’re leaving,” she hisses, her breath sharp and furious. “And you’re coming with me.”
I tense. “The hell I am.”
Her grip tightens, not hurting. “Yes, love,” she snarls. “You’re my ticket out of this mess.”
I twist as hard as I possibly can, but she’s strong. Lean muscle, adrenaline, and pure rage holds me in place. Every time I pull, she digs even harder into my skin.
“Let me g—”
Ping!
A bullet ricochets off a steel beam in the office. The eyes of one of the goons widens, and he slowly, disbelievingly, places his hand on his chest, then drops into a heap. It’s a horrible sight, but so is the realization that the bullet missed me by mere inches.
I glance up to see a man fall from the catwalk on the other side of the warehouse, landing with a sickening thud. Through it all, Peter remains stoic—firing off commands, returning shots, sweeping the room.
I want to scream out for him, but there’s no way he’d hear me over the noise. Ruth’s plan is obvious—even in the chaos, I realize she’s going to lead me out of there before Peter sees me, then use me as a bargaining chip.
Not a chance I’m going to let that happen. I struggle again, nearly getting loose.
Ruth screams at her goons. “Move! Hold her, you idiots!”
More hands clamp around my arms. The men begin dragging me out of the office, toward the stairs. I can only imagine what would happen if Ruth managed to get me out of here. I struggle with every little bit of strength I have left, but it’s not enough.
“No!” I scream. “Peter!”
The words are swallowed by another round of gunfire. My heart is pounding so loudly I can taste blood.
Behind us, someone shouts Ruth’s name. The men pull me to the top of the stairs, and I turn just in time to watch as a barrage of bullets rips through the office, dropping anyone who was unlucky enough to still be inside.
“Down the stairs!” Ruth shouts from just behind us. “Down and out the back! Keep her alive! If Peter gets to her first, it’s over!”
On the first stair landing, one of the goons shoves me too hard, and I lose my balance, falling forward, my knees slamming into the concrete. The pain is enough to make my vision blur.
“Up, up!” shouts Ruth.
The lights are shot out along the stairs, the effect making it feel as if I’m being pulled down into some dark abyss. As my knees throb, as the men push, a thought occurs to me.
Where’s Sasha? Does he know what’s going on? Did he abandon me?
More gunshots ring out; more groans of pain fill the air. The darkness is all around me, and as we reach the bottom of the stairs, I can see the chaos happening on the main floor—men firing, taking over, fighting for their lives.
This is the world Sasha tried so hard to protect me from, and now I’m right in the middle of it.
“We’re leaving,” Ruth snarls. “And if you struggle one more time, I swear to God I’ll put a bullet right in your belly.”