CHAPTER 21 #3
“This is it,” I whispered, staring at the valve, my heart hammering.
Liam was covering me, his rifle raised, his body a shield, his eyes scanning for threats. “Hurry, Rose!” he barked, his voice tight with urgency.
I reached for the red valve. It was stiff, resistant. My fingers, slick with sweat and grime, struggled to gain purchase. I gritted my teeth, digging my nails into the cold metal, putting all my strength into twisting it. The raw, metallic smell of old machinery filled my nose.
“It’s stuck!” I gasped, pulling, grunting with effort. My muscles screamed.
Liam was instantly beside me, his rifle still held in one hand, his other hand covering mine on the valve, his strength overwhelming.
His large fingers wrapped around my smaller ones, his raw power lending force to my struggle.
The heat of his body, the scent of his sweat and his unique musk, filled my senses, grounding me even as the world threatened to spin out of control.
“Now, moya roza!” he growled, his voice a low, primal roar of effort, pushing with me. “Together!”
With a loud, metallic shriek that grated against my teeth, the valve turned. It spun, slowly at first, then faster, grinding against its ancient mechanism. A deep, rumbling hiss started in the pipes overhead, growing louder, more insistent.
“Get down!” Liam roared, shoving me behind a heavy steel beam. He threw himself against me, his body a massive, unyielding weight, pressing me against the cold metal, shielding me completely.
The hiss became a deafening roar. With a tremendous explosion of sound and force, the pipe directly above Dmitri’s position burst. A violent geyser of superheated steam erupted, instantly filling the entire main chamber with a dense, blinding white fog.
The air shimmered, burned, became an opaque, scalding cloud.
Screams erupted from Dmitri’s men, screams of pain and disorientation. Gunfire became erratic, panicked, as their visibility was completely obliterated. The element of surprise. The pure, brutal chaos.
“Go, go, go!” Liam roared, pushing me out from behind the beam, his grip firm on my arm. He pulled me forward, charging into the blinding white hell, his rifle held high, his movements swift and deadly.
I was deafened, blinded, my eyes stinging from the heat and the steam.
I could only hold onto Liam, trust his lead, let him guide me through the scalding fog.
His body, hard and protective, was my only anchor in the churning, white inferno.
I heard the muffled pops of his rifle, the sickening thud of bodies falling, even through the roar of the steam.
He was a force, an unstoppable entity, and I was his shadow, his unwilling but fiercely loyal partner.
“Dmitri!” Liam’s voice, a raw, primal roar, cut through the steam, closer now, fueled by a terrifying, vengeful fury.
The steam began to dissipate, slowly, like a malicious spirit receding.
Shapes began to emerge from the white void, indistinct at first, then solidifying.
Dmitri. He stood on the central platform, his face contorted in a mask of fury and shock, his men scattered around him, disoriented, some writhing on the ground, burned by the steam.
He was still standing, still armed, but his advantage was gone.
His eyes, wild and bloodshot, fixed on Liam, then, with a horrifying intensity, landed on me.
A snarl, venomous and full of hate, ripped from his throat. “The bitch! You brought her here, brother? You let that whore poison your mind, destroy everything?!” He raised his rifle, not at Liam, but at me.
My breath hitched. Time slowed. I saw the glint of the barrel, the cold, murderous intent in Dmitri’s eyes. My Glock was still in my hand, but I knew I wouldn’t be fast enough.
Liam moved. A blur of motion, a primal roar tearing from his chest. He lunged, pushing me violently behind him, his body a solid wall, interposing himself between me and the death aimed at me.
His rifle cracked, a single, sharp report that echoed in the now-clearing chamber.
Dmitri’s shot went wide, ricocheting off a metal beam with a deafening clang.
Liam continued his charge, a terrifying, vengeful blur of muscle and fury.
His rifle was discarded, he didn’t need it.
This was personal. This was primal. He was going to end this with his bare hands.
He slammed into Dmitri, a brutal, bone-jarring tackle that sent them both sprawling to the ground, a tangle of limbs and raw hatred.
“No!” I screamed, my voice raw, broken, as I watched them, two Morozov brothers, locked in a death grip, tumbling across the cold concrete, their blows brutal and unforgiving.
This wasn't a tactical battle anymore. This was a family feud, a raw, bloody settling of scores.
And I, Rose Collins, was caught in the middle of it, a witness to the destruction of a legacy.
My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs.
The fight for the Morozov empire, for our future, had come down to this.