Chapter 13 Nadya #3
I slam Ludmila to her knees on the plush carpet, my grip white-knuckled in her hair. Her hands claw at mine, nails raking my skin.
“Where is my son?” I shout, shaking her hard.
She sobs, mascara streaking down her face. “Please—please don’t kill me, please—”
Rifat is at my side, hands on my arm, trying to pull me back. “Nadya, we need to take her. We need to move.”
I look at him, fury burning through me, then shove Ludmila toward the door. She stumbles, half crawling, still crying and begging.
“Get her up,” I order, voice shaking. “We’re not leaving without answers.”
Rifat hauls her to her feet, his jaw clenched. I keep my hand twisted in her hair as we push her into the corridor, her pleas echoing in the empty suite.
“Please,” she sobs. “I’ll tell you everything. Just—just don’t hurt me.”
Rifat presses a cloth over her mouth to keep her quiet while we move. My pulse hammers, but my voice is ice. “You’ll live, Ludmila. Long enough to tell me everything.”
We drag Ludmila through the suite, her heels scraping on the marble as she whimpers and clings to the doorframes. Rifat keeps one arm wrapped around her middle, pinning her hands while I press the barrel of my pistol into her back. Every time she stumbles, my patience thins.
“This is insane,” Dima mutters in my ear. I can hear the panicked clicks of his keyboard as he tries to cycle security cameras away from our route. “This wasn’t part of the plan—”
“It is now,” I snap, forcing Ludmila forward.
Ludmila’s breathing is ragged, each gasp cut off by Rifat’s palm. He’s dragging her half off her feet, her shoes scraping, designer scarf trailing like a flag of surrender.
We make it to the elevator foyer. Rifat hits the service call, glancing at his watch. “Stairwell’s riskier, but we don’t have time.”
I check the corridor. “No cameras until the elevator. Dima?”
“You’re clear, but only for another five minutes,” he answers. “Get her out, now.”
The elevator dings. The doors slide open—and two men are waiting inside. Both big, both armed. One of them steps forward, the gold tooth in his smile flashing under the lights.
Kirov.
He steps out of the elevator, all swagger and bad intentions, gold tooth glinting as he grins. Even in the chaos, I recognize him instantly—the man who once tried to buy me at the auction, who bid high and dirty while I stood on that cursed stage.
“Well, look at you now,” he sneers. “Didn’t think I’d get a second chance at my prize.”
Something inside me snaps. I shove Ludmila behind me, my voice like ice. “Try it. See how far you get this time.”
He laughs, not backing down, like the memory of that auction still means something to him. “I always did like a challenge.”
“You made a mistake coming here,” I spit.
His companion lifts a pistol, but Kirov flicks two fingers. “The girl’s mine. Take the big guy.”
I roll my shoulders, grounding myself. “How about you let us pass, and I don’t open your throat?”
His eyes flash with amusement. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
He lunges. Rifat meets him halfway, knife flashing—steel against flesh.
Kirov dodges left, slamming an elbow into Rifat’s ribs.
The other man closes in, gun raised. I move before he can fire, knocking his wrist up with the heel of my palm.
The shot cracks, ricocheting into the wall.
I drive my knee up, catching him in the gut, then wrench the pistol from his hand.
Rifat and Kirov grapple, both grunting, fists flying. Kirov slams Rifat against the elevator, trying to dislodge the knife. Rifat holds on, blood blooming on Kirov’s sleeve.
The second man recovers and swings at me. I duck, stepping inside his guard, using the momentum to jam the pistol into his jaw. He drops, spitting blood. I don’t hesitate—kick his weapon down the hall and spin to see Kirov wrench free from Rifat, knife still in his hand, wild and grinning.
Kirov rushes me, swinging the blade in a low arc.
I dodge back, feint left, then catch his wrist as he overcommits.
He’s stronger, but I’m faster. I twist, snap his wrist until he roars, knife clattering to the floor.
He swings a punch, but I duck under, driving my fist into his ribs again and again.
Rifat staggers upright, blood on his face, grabs Kirov from behind in a chokehold. The other thug claws at my ankle, trying to bring me down, but I stomp hard on his hand. He yowls, but lets go.
Kirov rises, nose bleeding, eyes vicious. He claws a knife from his boot—a thin, wicked blade—and rushes again. I sidestep, parry his slash with my forearm braced, but the knife grazes skin, warm sting along my biceps. Adrenaline flares hotter.
We circle. I feint left, then vault over the fallen console.
Kirov lunges after me, boots crunching glass.
I grab a broken carafe neck, jagged and heavy, and fling it.
It smashes against his temple; blood streaks through his short hair.
He wavers. I leap, plant a foot to his chest, and drive him back against the elevator frame.
He gasps for air. I seize his wrist, twist hard, bone cracks, the knife drops. With my free hand I hammer three quick punches into his solar plexus. Breath whooshes out of him. I yank him forward by his lapel, torquing his broken wrist until tears spring to his eyes.
Kirov’s bulk crashes into me, driving me backward before I regain footing.
I block his knife hand, but he plows straight through, palms spread like a battering ram.
His forearm whips across my collarbone, then he grabs a fistful of my jacket collar and swings me sideways into the wall, hard.
My skull rings, stars prickling behind my eyes.
Plaster cracks; a framed abstract falls and shatters by my boots.
The impact steals my breath, but training kicks in before panic can. I duck as he cocks back for a second strike and ram my knee into his gut. He grunts, staggering. I spin out, shoulder aching, vision tunneling for half a heartbeat. Fuck.
And then I kick him straight in the chest. Kirov falls to the ground, but I know we don’t have much time. The service elevator still gapes open behind Kirov’s fallen body, its interior lighting spilling across broken glass and spilled liquor.
“You,” the other guy snarls, barreling towards me. Rifat’s hand shoves into his jacket, and before I can react, he pulls a gun out and points it at the guy.
The shot echoes like thunder in the narrow hall. The man jerks, drops, and crumples against the mirrored wall as the shell clinks to the floor.
Rifat’s eyes flick to me. “We need to move—”
I push Ludmila at him. “Take her and go. I’ll hold him back.” I jerk my chin toward Kirov, who’s already dragging himself upright amid broken glass.
“Nadya, but—”
“Go.” I shove the pistol into his hand, shove Ludmila after him. The elevator doors start to close; Rifat swears, pulls her inside, and the panel slides shut with a dull chime.
Kirov lurches to his feet, blood dripping from his brow, fury twisting his face. I kick him in the ribs, hard enough to stall him, then spin for the emergency staircase.
I burst through the stair door and pound down flight after flight, boots slapping concrete. Two floors down, I glance back.
He’s there. Massive shoulders filling the doorway, face twisted with rage. “You’ll bleed for that, little princess,” he roars, barreling down after me.
I race faster, vaulting a landing rail to shave a corner, then leap the final three steps to the ground-floor landing. The exit is ten feet away, yellow PUSH bar glowing under emergency lights.
A hand like iron clamps my braid and yanks me backward. My back slams against concrete, and the world flashes white. Kirov’s weight drives me to the floor. His forearm wedges under my chin, crushing my windpipe.
My vision tunnels.
I claw at his eyes, rake nails across his split cheek, but he only snarls and tightens the choke. Black spots flicker at the edges of my sight. I grind my knee up, missing once, then slam it between his thighs. He grunts but doesn’t loosen enough.
Air. I need air.
A loud crack reverberates. Kirov jolts sideways, the pressure vanishing. He topples off me, clutching his shoulder, cursing in Russian. I roll onto my side, coughing hard, lungs burning.
I push up on shaky elbows just in time to see my father—Pyotr—standing over Kirov.
He’s grayer than I remember, beard trimmed short, eyes hard.
In his hands is an aluminum fire-axe handle ripped from the stairwell wall, the heavy head still attached.
He lifts it again, expression grim. “Get away from my daughter,” he growls, voice like gravel.
Kirov tries to rise, but Pyotr swings, the blow smashing into his ribs with a thud that echoes off concrete. Kirov tumbles down the steps, groaning.
I struggle to my feet, hand at my bruised throat. “Dad?” The word rasps, half disbelief, half relief.
Pyotr doesn’t answer immediately. He steps between me and Kirov’s crumpled form, hefting the weapon. Only then does he glance over his shoulder at me, eyes softening for a heartbeat. “Move, Nadya. We haven’t got long.”
Somewhere above, alarms begin to shriek. Security finally woke up.
I stumble forward, forcing my legs to obey. Pyotr offers a forearm, and I grip it, steadying myself. Together we limp through the exit, the night air hitting us like a wave of cold salt. Behind us, Kirov’s snarls fade under the wail of sirens, but I know this isn’t finished.
Not yet.