Chapter 43
SASHA
“Last chance to go back to the car,” I tell Bogdan. “You’ve earned it after taking a bullet for her.”
He checks the mag of his rifle. Calm. Methodical. But the movements cause him to wince.
“Job’s not done yet.” He says nothing about the pain.
“Could be for you. Bulletproof vests don’t make you invincible, you know—I’d wager you’ve got a couple of broken ribs underneath that thing.”
He shrugs, which gets another wince out of him. “Not until she’s safe. And I have to point out that you call me paranoid about how I wear a vest every time I leave the house.”
“Never again, I suppose.”
I roll my shoulders under my own Kevlar before turning my attention to the scout up front, who’s flashing me a hand signal. He’s crouched behind the rusted husk of a truck, two fingers raised: back door, movement.
We’re approaching the warehouse Peter rushed to, where we suspect Gabriella is being held. If she’s here, if Ruth is with her, there’s a good chance we can end this war once and for all.
But blood has already been spilled, and there’s more to come. I can feel it.
I’m with Bogdan and my ten best men. The dozen of us are fanning out around the warehouse, moving like ghosts armed with automatic weapons. Peter’s already inside with his own men—we tracked the car after he fled the meeting in a rage.
Bogdan taps my arm, nodding toward the rear loading dock. “There.”
The metal door creaks open just enough for shapes to slip through. Three… no, four men. Irish mob posture, Irish mob dress.
“They making an escape?” Bogdan asks.
“People leaving with confidence tend not to sneak out through the back door.”
“Good point. We drop them?”
“Not until I give the command.”
I raise my hand, signaling hold to the rest of the men. Everyone’s in position. I wait until I’m certain no one else is coming out. A few more had followed the first four, so seven in total. Twelve against seven is good odds, but I want this to be perfect.
Gunfire in the warehouse pops. I can only imagine what it looks like in there.
Then the moment feels right. I clench my hand into a fist. Hell breaks loose.
My men open up clean and controlled. They’re all trained—Spetsnaz, former cops, ex-KGB—so there’s no spray-and-pray. The first Irishman falls before he even knows he’s been seen. A second drops with a clean shot to the forehead. The rest take cover. That leaves five.
The Irishmen regain their bearings more quickly than I’d hoped. They return fire, bullets pinging off metal, hitting the dirt around us with wet thuds. One sparks against the truck near my head.
Bogdan pushes me down with a curse. “Getting shot by one of these thugs won’t do at all.”
I smirk. “You’re the expert.”
Bogdan pops up, taking ice-cold aim with his rifle. I watch him train the sights on one of the Irishmen hiding behind a concrete pillar. He waits, waits, then… pop. The Irishman drops like a sack of meat.
“Nice shot.”
“Unfortunately, it took until this late in the day for me to find my aim.”
His meaning is clear. No doubt he’s beating himself up for letting Gabriella been taken earlier.
Two more of the fleeing group try to fall back to the alley, but they run straight into my flank team.
I’d told my men to take anyone who surrendered. No need to make this any more of a bloodbath than it needs to be. But as I watch the Irishmen raise their weapons despite the fact that they’re clearly at the disadvantage, I realize there won’t be any prisoners.
This is a battle to the death, to end a war.
Three openings of automatic fire sound from my flank team, then silence. I glance around. The men who’d come outside are down, but there’s no sign of Ruth or Gabriella.
“Rear is clear!” calls out one of my men.
I hold up my palm for a long moment, part of me hoping Ruth will come out, ready to surrender. But she doesn’t. More gunshots sound from inside—what’s happening in there isn’t over yet.
Time to move. I gesture to the men that I’m taking point. Bogdan forms up at my side, and we head toward the door with silent footfalls. I pause at the entrance, the bangs of gunfire like small explosions in the expanse of the warehouse.
I slip inside. The air is thick with cordite and dust. I spot a body just to my right—another of Ruth’s men. My boots crunch over shell casings as I push in and flatten my body against a stack of pallets. More gunfire erupts.
The rest of the team enters. I repeat the gesture that I’ll be taking point, and then I move. I swing my body around the pallet and train my sights on what’s in front of me.
It’s a goddamn slaughterhouse. A good dozen of Ruth’s men lay dead here and there. Peter’s at the far end, an MP5 in his hands, his men positioned around him.
And in the center, taking desperate cover, is Ruth.
With her is Gabriella.
Rage courses through me. It takes all the restraint I have not to rush into the fray, kill Ruth, and pull Gabriella to safety. But it would be a foolish move. Gabriella is at Ruth’s side, and Ruth has a gun pressed to her ribs. A half dozen Irishmen ring them—the last ones standing.
This is it.
I step out from cover. Peter sees me and gives the order to his men to cease fire. An eerie calm settles over the warehouse.
Ruth turns and sees me, sees my men. Her eyes flash. She’s fucked, and she knows it.
“Ruth,” I call. “This ends now.”
She laughs, breathless and sharp. “I suppose we agree on something for once, Sasha. How novel.”
“You give the word,” Bogdan says quietly at my side. “I’ll drop her.”
“Ruth,” Peter calls out. “Let the girl go.”
“Why?” she snaps, baring her teeth. “So you can kill me the second I do?”
Gabriella twists, but Ruth’s gun presses harder into her belly. She’s terrified. But she’s still there. Still present. My brave woman.
She looks at me, her eyes locking onto mine for a fraction of a second.
I’m here, I try to say with my gaze. I came.
Her chin lifts—just a bit. Then, loud and clear in the echoing warehouse, she shouts: “I’m your daughter!”
The words explode in the air just as surely as a gunshot. No one moves or speaks.
Peter stares at her, as if seeing her for the first time. He’d come in knowing she was his daughter. But in those moments, it’s as if he’s recognizing it truly for the first time.
He sighs. “I know. I know.”
Ruth’s head snaps toward him. “What? You knew?”
Peter nods toward me. “Sasha told me.”
Ruth flicks her eyes from him to me. It’s finally dawning on her that she’s exactly where she doesn’t want to be. Her plan had been to reignite the war. But all she managed to do was unite us against her.
I shift my weight, looking for an angle, any angle. Bogdan’s hand hovers near my arm, ready to pull me out of harm’s way if Ruth decides she wants to go down shooting.
Peter takes a step forward. Guns raise in his direction from the Irishmen, Peter’s men raise their own weapons in return. One stupid move from anyone, and we’re all dead.
“Let. Her. Go.” Peter says.
“We don’t have to do this, Peter!” Ruth shouts. “Together, we kill Sasha and take over! It’s simple! We can do this cleanly—together.”
She’s raving now, completely out of options. It’s the classic case of a cornered animal—you must be careful or risk getting bitten.
“Ruth,” I say, “you’re surrounded. Your men are outnumbered. Walk away while you still can.”
Her eyes flash again, a storm in them. “You think I give a shit about walking away, Orlov?” She digs the barrel into Gabriella’s side. My hand tightens on my gun until my knuckles ache. “I came here for blood. And that’s what I’m going to get.”
My pulse drums in my ears. I line up the shot in my mind over and over—shift left, one inch above her heart, or the shoulder to knock her off balance. All of it ends with a risk to Gabriella—a chance I can’t live with.
But Peter has a clearer shot.
“You harm one hair on her head, and I’ll flay you alive.”
She cocks her gun. Gabriella sucks in a breath.
Time slows.
Peter moves. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t warn. He just raises his gun and fires.
The shot is clean. Brutal. Final.
Ruth’s body jerks. A red bloom spreads across her chest. She turns, facing me. She looks surprised. The gun slips from her hand. She falls to her knees, then into a heap.
The man next to her hesitates. Then he raises his weapon.
Time to end this.
“Gabriella, down!”
She drops.
My men open fire, aiming carefully not to hit Peter’s men. The remaining Irishmen fall before any of them can get a single shot off.
I signal one more time, and the gunfire stops just as quickly as it started.
Peter lowers his gun, and we face each other from opposite sides of the warehouse.
Gabriella regards me with wide eyes, waiting for me to tell her what to do.
I hold my palm parallel to the ground and lower it. She gets the message: Stay down.
“We are not finished,” Peter says.
I keep my weapon up, my eyes never leaving Gabriella. “No, we’re not.”
“I should kill you where you stand, Sasha,” he says. “You kept her from me. You let me hunt my own blood. Your father hid Louisa. You have much to answer for.”
His voice breaks on Louisa’s name. He’s not just angry. Peter is grieving his love and lashing out at the only man left to blame.
“My daughter,” he says. “All these years you and your father stole from me. I’ll never get them back.”
“Peter,” I say, “we can hash this out later. But now is not the time, not with guns.”
Guns. They remain drawn on both sides. This isn’t over yet. It could be if Peter wanted it to be.
I could try to explain, to tell him I was given orders by my father, that I inherited the responsibility, the war. I was bound by filial duty. I had to obey. But the look in Peter’s eyes tells me it wouldn’t do me a damn bit of good.
“I will answer for what I’ve done,” I say. “But please, let’s end this now.”
His eyes burn. “You think you can dictate terms? You think—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish before Gabriella interrupts him. “Peter! Father! Stop!”
Her words suck all of the air from the room.
We look at her. My woman. His daughter. The mother of my children. Everything centers around her.
“God, that sounds weird to say,” she says, looking at Peter. “But it feels good. Father. There’s been enough bloodshed. Please. All I want is safety, for me, for you, for Sasha, for all of us.”
“But the lies. The deceit!” Peter shouts. “It must end!”
“Then end it!” she yells at him, equally loud, equally strong. “End it now. End it without firing a single shot. We can stop the fighting now. Please. Think about your grandchildren!”
His eyes flick to her belly.
His gun remains raised. And so does mine.
The thought occurs to me to shoot him. To end it.
My finger stays on the trigger.
And so does his.