Chapter 27 Kazimir #2
He positions his men. Two on point, two behind them, two more covering our backs. Then he looks at me, and I see something in his eyes I've never seen before. Not forgiveness, that’s for certain. But understanding, maybe. Recognition of what I'm willing to do, willing to sacrifice.
"Go get your woman," he says quietly.
The door bursts open under the first man's boot—and then I hear it, a sound that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
A gunshot. Not suppressed. Loud and sharp and final. And then Svetlana's voice, ragged and desperate: "Stay back. Stay the fuck back or I swear to God—"
I'm moving before I can think, pushing past Ilya's men, my injured hand forgotten, pain forgotten, everything forgotten except the need to reach her. The room opens up before me. Large, concrete, lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. And there—
Svetlana.
She’s standing in the center of the room, covered in blood, a gun in her shaking hands.
At her feet, a guard lies dead, half his head missing.
And around her, like wolves circling prey, stand Iosef, Evan, and Grigory.
Three more guards are behind them, weapons raised but hesitant, like they aren't sure if they should shoot a pregnant woman.
But that isn't what stops my heart. It's the way Svetlana is holding that gun. Not pointed at them.
Pointed at herself. At her own head.
"Svetlana—" The word rips out of me.
Her eyes find mine. Her expression is wild and desperate… and on the verge of breaking.
"I won't let them," she says, and her voice is steady even though her hands shake. "I won't let them touch me again. I won't let them hurt my baby. I won't—"
"SVETLANA, NO!"
I lunge forward, and the room explodes into chaos.
Iosef's men open fire, and Ilya's men return it.
I crash into Svetlana, knocking her sideways out of the range of the gunfire, the gun discharging into the ceiling as we hit the ground.
Concrete bites into my shoulder, my hip, but I don't feel it.
I cover her body with mine, feeling bullets whip past us, hearing screams and shouts and the wet sound of metal punching through flesh.
"Kazimir—" Her voice is muffled against my chest.
"Stay down," I growl, then roll off her, bringing my gun up.
The room is a war zone. Ilya's men have taken cover behind overturned tables and old equipment, trading fire with Iosef's guards. Muzzle flashes light the darkness. The air fills with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the copper tang of blood.
One of Iosef's guards is charging toward us, his face twisted in rage. I put two rounds in his chest and one in his head. He drops three feet away, his momentum carrying him forward until he slides to a stop at my feet.
I grab his rifle and come up firing. Another guard appears from the left, trying to flank us. I catch him with a burst that stitches across his torso. He spins and falls.
"Behind you!" Svetlana screams.
I spin. A third guard, almost on top of us, his weapon coming up. I squeeze the trigger, but my gun clicks empty.
Svetlana fires. Once, twice, three times. The first two shots go wide—she's shaking, inexperienced, and terrified—but the third catches him in the throat. He goes down gurgling, blood spraying across the concrete in a wide arc.
I drop the empty rifle and pull my pistol again, grabbing a fresh magazine from my belt. My right hand screams in protest as I use it to steady the weapon, but the stimulants keep me moving.
A guard emerges from behind a support column. I put him down. Another tries to rush Ilya's position. Sergei cuts him down with a controlled burst.
The firefight is brutal and short. Ilya's men are professionals, trained killers who move like a single unit.
They communicate with hand signals, covering each other, advancing in coordinated movements.
Iosef's guards are thugs—strong, vicious, but undisciplined.
They fire wildly, waste ammunition, and break cover at the wrong times.
Within ninety seconds, the guards are all dead.
Brass casings litter the floor. The smell is thick enough to choke on. Blood pools and spreads, mixing with the water that seeps through cracks in the concrete.
But Iosef, Evan, and Grigory are still alive.
They've taken cover behind an overturned table, and now they emerge slowly, weapons raised. Ilya's men have them surrounded, red laser dots dancing across their chests, but no one fires. This isn't their fight, and they know better than to take the shot.
This is personal.
Ilya understands that. He gestures to his men, and they fall back slightly, maintaining a perimeter but giving us space.
I stand slowly, pulling Svetlana up with me.
She's shaking, covered in blood—some hers, most not—but she's alive.
She's breathing. And when she looks at me, I see both fear and fury in her face.
"You came," she whispers.
"Always." I keep myself between her and the three men who tortured her. "I'll always come for you."
Iosef laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "How touching. The great Kazimir, reduced to playing hero for used goods."
I feel Svetlana flinch behind me.
"She’s not a possession. Not goods," I say quietly, my voice cold and flat. "And I don’t care who touched her before, so long as I’m the last.”
"Is that really how you feel?" Evan sneers, his weapon still raised but wavering slightly. "Did she tell you all the things we did to her? All the ways we—"
I shoot him.
Not in the head. In the stomach, where it will take the longest to die, if I have that much patience. He goes down screaming, clutching at the wound, blood pouring between his fingers. His weapon clatters away across the concrete.
"You don't get to talk about her," I snarl, walking toward him. "You don't get to say her name. You don't get to fucking breathe the same air as her."
Evan is crying now, begging, trying to crawl away. His hands scrabble at the concrete, leaving bloody smears. "Please—please, I'm sorry, I didn't—"
I put my boot on his chest, pinning him. He screams.
"This is for every time you touched her," I say, pressing the barrel of my gun against his forehead. I’ve decided against patience. "Every time you hurt her. Every nightmare you gave her."
I pull the trigger. The shot echoes in the concrete room. Evan's body goes still, his eyes staring at nothing.
One down.
Grigory roars and charges at me, abandoning his gun for a knife. He's fast, but I'm faster. I sidestep, letting him stumble past, then grab his knife arm and twist hard. The bone snaps with a satisfying crack. He screams, high and shrill.
The knife falls from his useless hand. I kick it away, then drive my fist into his kidney; once, twice, three times. He collapses to his knees, gasping.
But before I can finish him, Svetlana is there.
She's picked up one of the dead guards' guns, and now she presses it against the back of Grigory's head. Her hands aren't shaking anymore.
"You held me down," she says, her voice cold and clear and utterly without mercy. "You laughed while I screamed. You told me no one was coming to save me."
Grigory's eyes are wide with terror, his face pale. "Please—please, I was just following orders, I didn't want to—"
"Liar." She presses the gun harder against his skull. "You enjoyed it. I saw it in your eyes. You got off on it."
"I'm sorry!" He's sobbing now, snot running down his face. "I'm sorry, please, I have a family, I have—"
"You held me down," Svetlana repeats, and her voice doesn't waver. "You laughed while I screamed. You told me no one was coming to save me."
She looks at me then, and I see something fierce and unbreakable in her gaze. Someone who has survived everything they did to her and come out stronger.
"You were wrong," she says to Grigory, though her eyes never leave mine. "Someone did come. And now you're going to die knowing that everything you did to me, every way you tried to break me, failed."
She pulls the trigger. Grigory's body drops at our feet, blood and brain matter spraying across the concrete.
Two down.
That leaves Iosef.
He backs toward the far wall, his gun swinging between Svetlana and me, his face pale and slick with sweat. "You think this changes anything? You think killing us makes you free? There will always be others. She'll never be safe. That baby will never be safe. You've signed their death warrants by—"
"Shut up." Svetlana's voice cuts through his rambling like a blade.
She steps forward, and I move with her, keeping pace.
"You're wrong. I am free. I was free the moment Kazimir found me in that cell.
I was free every day I survived you. And I'll be free every day after this, because you'll be dead, and I'll be alive, and that's all that matters. "
Iosef's back hits the wall. He has nowhere left to run. His weapon is shaking in his hands, the barrel wavering between us.
"Who gets him?" I ask quietly, looking at Svetlana. "Your choice."
She meets my eyes. Then she points her gun at him. "Together," she says.
We raise our weapons in unison, standing side by side. Iosef opens his mouth to speak, to beg, to threaten—it doesn't matter.
We fire together.
The two bullets find their target in the same instant. One through the heart, one through the head. Iosef's body jerks once, then slumps against the wall, leaving a red smear as he slides to the floor.
Three down.
It's over.
The room falls silent except for our breathing and the ringing in my ears from the gunfire. Svetlana sways on her feet, and I catch her, pulling her against me. She's shaking again, the adrenaline draining away, leaving only exhaustion and relief mingled together.
"I've got you," I murmur into her hair, breathing in the smell of her. "I've got you. You're safe now."
"The baby—" Her voice breaks. "Kazimir, the baby, I need to—"
"We're getting you to a doctor. Right now." I look at Ilya, who nods and is already speaking into his radio.
I pull back slightly, my hands framing her face, tilting it up so I can see her. There's blood on her cheek, and her eyes are red-rimmed and wild.
"Are you hurt?" I ask, my hands already moving over her, checking for wounds. "Did they—"
"I'm okay." Her voice is hoarse. "I'm okay, I just—" Her eyes drop to my right hand, to the blood-soaked bandage, and her face goes white. "Your hand. Oh God, Kazimir, your hand—"
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing, you're—" She reaches for it, but I pull away.
"Later," I say firmly. "Right now, we need to get you out of here."
But she isn't listening. Her hands have moved to her stomach, pressing against the slight swell there. "The baby. I need to know if the baby's okay. They didn't—they didn't hurt me there, but I need to know—"
I place my hand over hers, feeling the warmth of her skin. "We'll know soon. I promise. But we have to go."
She nods, but her legs give out when she tries to take a step. I catch her, scooping her into my arms despite the screaming protest from my hand. "I can walk," she protests weakly.
"I know you can." I start toward the stairs, Ilya's men forming up around us, weapons still raised, covering our exit. "But you don't have to."
We emerge from that basement into the factory floor, then out into the cool Boston night. The air is cold and clean, washing away the smell of blood and gunpowder. Svetlana buries her face against my neck, and I feel wetness there.
"I thought you wouldn't come in time," she whispers. "I thought—I couldn't let them—"
"I know." My voice is rough, breaking on the words. "But I did come. I'll always come. Always."
The vehicles are waiting where we left them. Ilya opens the back door of the lead SUV, and I climb in carefully, still holding Svetlana. She curls against me, her hands fisting in my shirt.
Viktor is already in the front seat, a medical kit open on his lap. "How badly is she hurt?"
"I don't know," I admit. "She says she's okay, but—"
"I'm okay," Svetlana says, but her voice is faint. "Just tired. So tired."
"There's a clinic ten minutes from here," Ilya says, sliding into the seat beside us. "Discreet. We’ve used them before. They'll check her and the baby."
The driver pulls out, the other vehicles falling in behind us. I hold Svetlana closer, one hand cradling her head, the other resting on her stomach.
"You're safe now," I murmur into her hair, saying it again and again like a prayer. "You're safe. I've got you. No one's ever taking you again. I promise. I swear to God, Svetlana, no one will ever hurt you again."
She doesn't respond, but I feel her hand move to cover mine where it rests on her belly. Her fingers lace through mine—through the fingers I still have—and hold on tight.
My right hand throbs. Blood still seeps through the bandage, dripping onto the leather seat.
I don't care.
She's alive. Our baby is alive. And everyone who tried to hurt them is dead.