Chapter 21
VIKTOR
Anya has been off all day. She willfully gets out of bed when the nurse tells her not to, though that’s not necessarily anything new. She’s extra sharp with the guards, though I take that as a sign that she’s feeling better. What’s really off, though, is that she isn’t speaking to me.
I’ve spent weeks learning her patterns. I know when she’s sick and trying to hide it. I know when she’s angry and looking for a fight. Finding out about her pregnancy made me realize exactly how she acts when she doesn’t want me to know she’s feeling off.
Her attitude now reminds me a lot of that, and I’m worried about her. Could there be something wrong with the baby? I thought we’d gotten past the lying phase of our relationship, but apparently, I was mistaken.
I catch her in the upstairs hallway after lunch. She’s moving slowly, one hand grazing the railing for balance when she thinks no one is looking. The nurse is still in her room, changing the sheets.
“I’m fine,” Anya grumbles when she sees me watching her.
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “Although it would be nice to know why you’ve been so distant the last few days.”
She stops on the last step and looks at me with a flat expression.
“I’m not being distant.” She shrugs. “I’m just dealing with a lot right now.”
“That’s understandable.” I nod, but I still feel the tension and realize she isn’t making eye contact with me. Something is definitely wrong.
Her mouth tightens.
“Can I get past?” she asks a little harshly. “I was going down to make food.”
“What do you want?” I ask. “I’ll bring it to you.”
“I can make my own food!” she blows up, then looks at me carefully, like she knows that was an overreaction. “I’m not an invalid.”
“I don’t think you are,” I reply, feeling the frustration rising in my chest. “I’m just trying to help you.”
“I don’t need help,” she says, but I hear what she really means.
She doesn’t need my help.
She brushes past me and heads toward the kitchen. I follow her because I’m not letting her dismiss me that easily. We’d finally had a breakthrough. Things between us were good, and suddenly they’re not? It doesn’t make any sense, and I’m going to get my answers.
“Anya,” I say, keeping my voice low.
She pauses without turning.
“I’m not interested in fighting with you,” she says.
That stops me in my tracks. Why the hell would we be fighting?
“I am not interested in fighting either,” I answer. “So, please, tell me why we would be.”
She finally turns around to face me.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You tell me, Viktor,” she says coldly.
I watch her face carefully. She’s truly angry at me for something that I’ve done or haven’t done.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I tell her truthfully. “What’s happening here? Talk to me.”
She holds my gaze, and I can see the decision behind it. She isn’t deciding what to say. She’s deciding whether I deserve the truth.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she finally says, before turning back on her heel and heading toward the kitchen.
I decide not to follow her. Maybe she isn’t actually mad at me.
Maybe the pregnancy hormones are just getting the best of her and she needs space.
Whether or not that’s the truth, it’s the best I can come up with at the moment.
As much as I hate to admit it, there are more important things to worry about right now than Anya’s mood swings.
Mikhail’s men aren’t going to wait for me to slip up. He’s actively searching the city for me, and he’s going to find me eventually. I’m making every effort to disappear with Anya until this blows over. Even then, I have to keep her out of his grasp. I will not leave my child without a mother.
I go to check the control room monitors. I check the exterior feeds. I check the patrol rotation logs. I check the back garden gate camera and the side gate camera and the driveway feed. Everything looks normal, which is a relief. One less thing to worry about, anyway.
My phone buzzes once, then stops. It’s Sergei sending a short update that says nothing new. No fresh sightings. No confirmed movement near the neighborhood. No fresh pressure points that require immediate response.
I keep circling back to the same thought. Something changed after we were together. Did someone say something to her? Did she get in her own head? Has Mikhail found a way to get a message to her?
I sit up straighter and consider the thought. He managed to get that dress to the old safe house. He knows how to get a message to us. Who’s to say that he didn’t slip a note in somehow? That would certainly explain the change in her.
Sitting at the desk in the control room, I force myself to focus on the screens. A car passes the end of the block and keeps moving. A neighbor pulls into a driveway. A dog walker crosses the street.
The feed shifts slightly. It takes my brain a second to register what’s wrong. The angle from the front gate camera is different. It’s subtle. The camera isn’t blacked out. It isn’t flickering. It’s pointing a few degrees too far left.
Someone’s messed with it. My body reacts before my mind fully processes the thought. I stand and reach for my gun. The radio crackles once. There’s no voice. There’s a short burst of sound that could be breathing, then it cuts out.
That’s when the first gunshot hits. It’s inside the perimeter and close. It’s followed by a second and third shot. They’re both controlled, not panicked or defensive. Whoever is shooting the gun is not on my side, and they’re already too close.
I hit the radio’s button. “Lock down the stairwell. Confirm contacts and hold the second floor.”
The reply comes fragmented through static, but the meaning is clear. “They’re coming through the back.”
I move immediately through the hallway toward the kitchen. I need to guard Anya and get her out of here, but she’s not there. The kitchen door is ajar.
Cold air pours in. One of my men is on the floor by the back entrance, eyes open, blood spreading beneath him. His gun is gone. That means the attacker took it or kicked it away. Either way, it means the attacker is disciplined enough to reduce variables.
A second guard is braced behind the kitchen island, firing toward the open back door in short bursts. His face is tight, jaw clenched, eyes focused.
“Where are they?” I ask him.
“Two came through the garden,” he replies without looking at me. “Three more came through the side gate.”
That’s five at minimum, and that’s just what he saw. This is another coordinated effort. I push past him and take a position near the doorway, using the frame as cover. I can see movement in the back garden. Shadows behind hedges. A figure shifting behind a decorative wall.
They aren’t firing blindly into the house. They’re firing to pin my men in place while another group moves.
“Where is Anya?” I ask him tightly. “Did you see her?”
“She went upstairs as soon as she heard the first gunshot,” he tells me, never taking his eyes off the back door.
My throat tightens as I go to find her. The front hallway is chaos. One of my guards is dragging an injured man toward the sitting room, blood trailing on the floor. Another is pressed against the wall near the stairwell, gun up, eyes wide.
“They’re inside,” he says.
“I know,” I answer.
A masked attacker appears near the base of the stairs, weapon raised. I fire before he does. He goes down hard, his body folding in a way that tells me it was a critical hit. He still tries to move. That’s when I realize he’s wearing a bulletproof vest.
I cross the distance and shoot again, higher, through the throat. He drops fully, gun slipping from his hand.
“Hold this line,” I tell my guard. “Do not let anyone up.”
He nods. I take the stairs two at a time. My lungs pull tight as I climb. My pulse hammers. My grip stays steady because I don’t have the luxury of shaking now. The second-floor landing smells like gunpowder. The hallway light flickers as if it took a hit.
A body is slumped near the banister. One of mine. Blood streaks on the wall behind him. His head is at an odd angle that tells me there’s no saving him.
I don’t stop to check. I hear noise from the far end of the hall, the sound of metal on metal. A lock being hit. It sounds like it’s coming from Anya’s room. I move faster.
Two attackers are at the door. One is braced with a tool, slamming it into the latch. The other is positioned outward with a gun, covering the hallway.
When he sees me, he raises his weapon. I shoot him before he can fire. He drops to the ground, hitting the man at the door. He turns, tool still in his hands, his eyes widening under the mask. I shoot him in the chest.
He staggers back in a way that tells me he’s also wearing a vest. I close the distance and put a shot into his leg. He collapses to the ground, but he doesn’t go down without a fight. He tries to raise his gun, but I put a shot into his face before he can get the chance to do anything.
I turn toward Anya’s door. The handle is damaged and the latch is bent. The frame has deep gouges where the tool hit. I grab the handle and shove it open.
The room is wrecked. The nurse’s supplies are knocked over. The trash can is tipped on its side. The nightstand drawer is pulled open like someone searched it. The bed is rumpled.
Anya is nowhere to be seen. My chest tightens so hard it feels like a physical injury.
I scan the room anyway because my brain refuses to accept the conclusion. The bathroom door is open, and it’s completely empty. Same with the closet. The window, though, is open. I rush out to the balcony, and find nothing but a bloody handprint on the frame.
The sight makes my vision narrow. I let out a sound that isn’t quite a scream and doesn’t really feel human. Footsteps pound up the stairs behind me. Sergei appears in the doorway, gun in hand, face tight and grim. There’s blood on his sleeve. He looks at the wreck of the room, then at me.
“Did they take her?” he asks.
“Yes,” I hiss.
Sergei’s jaw clenches. “We lost three men downstairs. One is injured but breathing. The attackers pulled back fast once they got what they came for.”
I stare at the blood on balcony, and hear a roaring in my ears. I know I should care about the men, but I just can’t. The only thought that I can concentrate on is the one resounding over and over again in my head. Anya is gone. They took her.
“You know she fought like hell,” Sergei says quietly, as if he’s trying to comfort me. “We’ll get her back.”
“We’d better,” I say hollowly. “Or I’ll destroy the whole damn borough.”