Chapter 39
ASTRID
Glass explodes above me.
The first flash-bang detonates with a blinding white pulse, a crack of sound so violent it shudders through my bones. My body jerks, breath ripped from my chest as smoke pours into the warehouse in rolling clouds, swallowing everything in shades of grey and firelight.
Then come the screams.
Automatic gunfire bursts in violent rhythm, deafening and close. Men are shouting in Spanish and in Russian, screaming orders or just screaming, as boots thunder across concrete.
I throw myself sideways off the chair, hitting the concrete floor hard, the metal cuffs biting into my wrists. My legs are still bound, but I manage to twist my body, curling into myself, arms over my belly.
The room is a complete war zone.
I can’t see five feet in front of me. Violence flashes like strobe lights as muzzle fire lights up faces. A man near me collapses with a hole through his throat, blood painting the concrete. Another man goes down screaming, clutching his leg.
And still the gunfire doesn’t stop.
But I recognize the pattern. The coordination. These aren’t thugs firing blind. They’re trained.
And Alexei is with them. These are Alexei’s men and they move like they were born to fight. No wasted motion.
Two flank the left side wall, using the cover of crates to clear a path. One drops from the catwalk above like a specter, silent as death, landing behind two of De la Rosa’s guards and shooting them in the back of the head before they even realize he’s there.
I gasp, chest burning as I try to breathe.
One of the bodies slams to the floor not three feet from my head, more blood slicking the concrete beside me. I flinch back, heart hammering against my ribs, but I stay down. There’s nowhere else to go.
Through the smoke, I catch a flicker of movement—Christian.
While everyone else is caught in the storm, he moves with eerie calm, a dark silhouette slipping toward the back exit flanked by two of his elite guards. He planned for this. He’s always two steps ahead. Even now, he moves like a man untouched by consequence.
He doesn’t look back. He disappears through the door, alive.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
The shooting fades to a series of final pops. Two more downed guards, a suppressed shot from above, and then, like a spell breaking, silence swells.
Over the ringing in my ears, I hear the shifting of boots, the clipped orders in Russian.
And then I see Yuri.
He walks through the smoke like a ghost, blood streaking his cheek, his coat flaring behind him. His eyes are dark. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t bark commands. He just moves, and his men move with him, like phantoms on strings. His knuckles are torn open.
His presence is enough to make the rest of the room shrink.
Behind him, Lev and Luk sweep in, picking off the last of De la Rosa’s men. Efficient. Ruthless.
It’s over in seconds.
My breathing slows. I’m shaking violently, but I’m alive.
From the far side of the room, a figure staggers out of the smoke.
Spalding is limping, dragging one leg behind him. Blood streaks his face, caking into the wrinkles around his mouth. He looks like a man who just clawed out of hell. His hair is wild, and his tattered shirt clings to him, darkened with sweat and blood.
There’s gun in his hand.
I’m not sure he knows what he’s doing. His eyes are manic. His teeth bared.
He’s heading straight for me.
I twist, trying to push myself further behind the chair, but my legs are still bound. I can’t crawl. Can’t run. The best I can do is put my hands over my stomach and hope to God that someone, anyone, sees him in time.
He raises the pistol. My world narrows to that barrel. That trembling hand. The wild look in his eyes.
Do something, my mind screams. Fight. Move. Yell.
But I can’t speak, can’t move.
He takes a step forward.
The gun rises, inches from my face.
Spalding’s wild eyes lock on mine, and I can almost feel the moment he decides to end my life. No reasoning. No leverage. Just rage. One final attempt at control.
I brace myself for the end.
POP, POP.
The shots rip through the air, louder than thunder.
Spalding screams and drops like a marionette with its strings cut, a sharp, ragged cry tearing from his throat as two bullets slam into his side and shoulder in quick succession. Blood spatters the concrete as he crumples sideways, his momentum sending him sprawling across the floor.
Another shot. Another scream.
He rolls onto his back, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath him, the other clutching his shoulder, blood blooming fast through his shirt. The pistol slips from his hand onto the concrete, landing in a slow, trembling spin.
Yuri steps forward. His expression is carved from ice. No rage. No panic. Just the cold precision of a man who’s been preparing for this single moment.
He walks past me without a glance and heads straight to Spalding. With a swift, deliberate motion, he kicks the gun farther across the floor. It clatters against the concrete, spinning out of reach with a hollow metallic ring.
Spalding groans, writhing in pain, slick with blood. His breath stutters in his throat as Yuri crouches beside him.
“You never learn,” Yuri says, voice low. “But you will.”
Spalding coughs, blood flecking his lips. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” he gasps. “I had a deal—”
Yuri cuts him off with a smile so sharp it could gut a man. “You had nothing.”
Spalding’s eyes roll. “This–this isn’t over.”
Yuri chuckles. “For you it is. You’re done.”
Then he stands and finally—finally—turns to me. The mask cracks.
Yuri drops to his knees, fingers working at the zip ties cutting into my ankles. His hands tremble. Just barely, but I see it.
“I’ve got you,” he says, the words tumbling out. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
The ties snap free.
I sit up, and he gently cups my face, his thumbs brushing away the dried blood at the corners of my mouth. I should say something clever, something strong—but all I can do is fall into him, body sagging into the circle of his arms.
He holds me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Like he still doesn’t believe I’m real.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, though it’s not entirely true. I’m bruised, shaken, and falling apart inside. But I’m breathing. And he’s here. And that’s enough for now.
His lips find my hair, my temple. “He won’t touch you again. No one will.”
I let out a shaky breath.
The moment barely has time to settle before we hear the pounding of boots. The door slams open. It’s the FBI. Black uniforms, bulletproof vests, rifles drawn.
Lev steps forward from the shadows, cool and collected. He lifts his hands slowly, showing he’s unarmed. One of the agents nods at him with familiarity. Respect.
Yuri doesn’t flinch. He just keeps one hand on me, grounding us both.
The lead agent eyes the room, the carnage of bodies and blood. He sees Spalding sprawled on the floor, sobbing into the concrete.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Get him up.”
Two agents move forward and snap cuffs on Spalding’s wrists. He babbles—curses, threats—most of them aimed at Christian.
“He left me here!” he howls.
The agents drag him upright. One reads him his rights. The other tries not to step in the blood.
I watch, dazed. The man who held a gun to my head, who tried to trade me like a pawn, is now screaming like a child as they carry him off. It should feel like closure.
But it doesn’t. Not with Christian still out there.
“He had a back door,” Yuri says, like he can read my thoughts. “Had it the whole time.”
I nod. “Of course he did.”
De la Rosa didn’t plan to fight. He planned to survive.
Another agent steps in and uncuffs my hands from behind my back.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until Elena appears beside us, her hand slipping into mine. Her voice is soft, calming. “Hey. It’s over now.”
Yuri glances at her. The nod they exchange is brief, but it carries weight. Understanding. Gratitude.
“Come on,” Elena says, helping me stand. “Med van’s outside.”
My legs buckle once before I find balance. Blood rushes to my head and Yuri wraps an arm around me, supporting me without question. We make our way through the wreckage—overturned crates, shattered glass, broken bodies.
I don’t have the words to explain everything I feel. The terror, the relief, the ache of having almost lost him—again.
All I can say is, “I’m still yours.”
His eyes darken. “And I’m never letting go,” he replies.
The agents swarm the space behind us. Lev is giving a report to the lead investigator. Alexei is checking weapons. Luk’s already on a call.
Spalding is done, but I know this isn’t the end.
Christian De la Rosa walked out of this building untouched.
And there won’t be peace until he’s caught.