29. Alexei
The phone rattles slightly as I drop it onto the console and switch it to speaker.
The car surges forward, tires whining as we peel away from the docks and cut hard toward the old tournament field.
Streetlights blur into streaks of white and gold as the city rushes past, as though it’s trying to outrun what’s coming next.
I don’t like this.
Not for a second.
Wendell, alone, slipping back into Zurdonia while his face is plastered across every screen, every bulletin. A fugitive. A threat. And yet here he is, bold enough to walk back into the one place that wants him caged, or dead.
They’ve managed to stay one step ahead of us. Every move has been anticipated. Every trap has been sprung just wide of its mark.
This feels like another one.
“Don’t worry,” Clara’s voice crackles through the speaker. “We’re close. The Russian and I are moving toward the agent’s position now.”
She’s whispering. That tells me everything I need to know.
“Call if anything changes,” I order, more sharply than I intended, and end the call before she can answer.
The silence in the car is thick. Charged, even.
I glance sideways.
Elena’s hands are clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale, thumb worrying at the edge of her ring. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, just as it always is when she’s bracing herself for something she doesn’t want to hear, but already knows is coming.
“You’re going to ask me,” she guesses, voice low, resigned.
I exhale through my nose and turn toward her. “It’s dangerous.”
She lets out a short, humorless breath. “It’s always dangerous.”
“He’s alone,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice even.
“Alone?” Her head snaps up. The word echoes, sharp with suspicion.
“We don’t know what we’re walking into,” I continue. “And I can’t have you there.” I reach for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. “I need you safe.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to argue. Her jaw tightens, her eyes flash. Instead, she scoots closer. Rests her head against my shoulder. The simple weight of her against me nearly breaks me.
“I need you safe, too,” she states softly. “I can’t shake this feeling, Alexei. Like something’s about to go wrong.”
The guilt hits hard and suddenly, like a blow to the ribs.
Inanna’s voice echoes in my head, measured, calm, damning.
Borrowed time.
One path ends in blood.
My chest tightens. I keep my gaze forward, jaw locked, because if I look at her too long, I might break. I might tell her everything.
And if I do, she’ll run straight into the fire for me. She’ll try to bend fate with bare hands and sheer will.
I can’t let that happen.
One will fall.
I will not let it be her.
The car speeds on, its engine growling, the tournament field looming as Blake makes the next turn.
Blake pulls in beside Clara and Ruslan’s vehicle, gravel spitting beneath the tires before the SUV jerks to a stop.
For a second, the world goes quiet.
I close my eyes.
Just one breath.
One final second of stillness in the backseat with her beside me. The faint scent of her perfume. The warmth of her hand in mine. I let it anchor me before I have to step into whatever this is.
Then I turn.
My lips press to her forehead, firm yet soft. I squeeze her hand once, memorizing the shape of it in mine before she lifts her head to look at me.
We don’t speak.
We don’t need to.
Her eyes search mine, and I know she sees the calculation there. The readiness. The things I’m not saying.
“Come back to me,” she whispers.
My hand slides to her cheek, thumb tracing slowly down to her jaw. She leans into my palm, eyes falling closed for a brief second, and it nearly undoes me.
I keep my gaze on her as I raise my voice toward the front seat. “Blake, stay with her. Protect her at all costs.”
“With my life,” he answers without hesitation.
I force my hand to drop.
If I linger, I won’t leave.
I push the door open and step out into the cold night air. Gravel shifts beneath my feet. She scoots toward the edge of the seat, stopping at the doorframe. I can feel her wanting to follow. It pulls at me like a physical tether.
Don’t.
I give her one last look.
Then I shut the door.
The field stretches wide and empty ahead, moonlight casting long shadows across the scar in the earth where everything first went wrong.
I shove the comm into my ear.
“Clara, you read me?”
“Here,” she whispers. “He found the entry point where they lowered the men. He’s heading down into the hole. What do you want us to do?”
“Hold position,” I reply, already moving. “I’ll be there soon.”
The grass crunches underfoot as I close the distance. Ruslan nods once when I reach them. Clara’s eyes are bright, alert, gun already drawn.
“What’s the plan?” Ruslan murmurs.
“He doesn’t leave,” I say evenly. “Not in control of the outcome.”
Ruslan’s jaw tightens. Clara checks her magazine with a sharp metallic click and grins.
“Finally,” she murmurs.
Then the ground shifts. It starts as a vibration beneath my feet. Subtle and wrong.
“Hold,” I snap.
The rumble deepens, tearing through the earth with a violent shudder. We stagger, scrambling for balance as the turf ripples like something alive is beneath it.
Ruslan grabs Clara’s arm to steady her; she grips him back without thinking, then pulls away a split second later.
“What was that?” she shouts.
The ground splits open.
A jagged seam rips across the woods, widening fast. We jump back as chunks of soil collapse inward, but it isn’t collapsing.
It’s moving with precision.
Panels of reinforced turf slide apart in movements too smooth to be natural. Mechanized. Engineered.
“Is that what I think—” Clara starts.
Stairs.
The earth folds and shifts, locking into place piece by piece until a staircase forms, descending into a hollow flooded with blinding white light. The rumbling finally slows, then dies completely.
Dust drifts through the air.
Silence settles.
I step forward slightly, weapon steady, pulse controlled.
A shadow moves at the base of the stairs, slow and measured.
Footsteps ring against the metal concealed beneath the turf. I steady my weapon, waiting for the movement to fade, my senses narrowed to the faint echo of footsteps.
Wendell ascends from the ground like he owns it.
No rush. No panic. Not the behavior of a hunted man.
He brushes dirt from his sleeve as if this were a scheduled meeting instead of a manhunt.
And when he looks up and sees us waiting…
He smiles.
Wendell steps off the final stair and onto solid ground as if he’s walking onto a stage built for him.
His smile widens when he sees me.
“Seems you’ve been keeping many secrets, Alexei.”
I lift my weapon and center it at his chest. The weight is familiar. Steady. My finger tightens slightly on the trigger, not enough to fire, enough to remind myself I can.
“Get on the ground,” I order.
He doesn’t even glance at the barrel pointed at his heart.
“Kravino always suspected something remained,” Wendell continues conversationally. “After Ivan learned about the tainted queen’s past. Her gifts. Her family. Yours. All of you thought you could bury it.” His eyes gleam. “Thought you destroyed the powers you’d obtained.”
To the side of me, Ruslan mutters, “What is he talking about?”
“Not now,” Clara snaps, shifting left. Ruslan mirrors her on the right. We close the triangle, hemming him in.
Wendell notices. But his gaze never leaves mine.
“The Markovas believed they destroyed the stone,” Wendell continues. “But they misunderstood something exceedingly simple.” His hands rise slowly in front of him, palms open, as if indulging me. “Stones can be shattered. Cenotes can be bled dry. But dust?” His smile sharpens. “Dust remains.”
A cold, hollow feeling spreads through my chest. My fingers tighten around the trigger. The agent in me knows exactly what needs to happen: eliminate the threat before he can hurt Elena again. No hesitation, questions, or thoughts of remorse.
But the man—the one Elena loves—knows that killing in cold blood isn’t who I am. It isn’t who I want to become.
“The dust runs in my blood,” he continues softly, staring at his hands as if they will combust any minute.
“There was never randomness to who received its gifts. We know Elena’s ancestor was the first. It’s how they stole the crown from my family.
They kept some of it, as evidenced by the dormancy.
Then nothing… until you.” His eyes flicker with satisfaction. “Until her. Until now.”
My jaw locks, the muscles aching with the force of it. Sweat glides between my shoulder blades as I keep my gun trained on him. He’s far too calm—too cocky even for him—for a man surrounded by three armed agents.
Something happened down there.
The thought cinches its hold in my gut like cement, heavy and cold. Every instinct shouts that we’re seconds away from finding out just how much more dangerous Wendell has become.
“It only required someone worthy,” he notes. “And that someone is me.”
“I have a clean shot,” Clara calls. “Let me put him down.”
Wendell’s head tilts slightly in her direction. Slowly. Purposely.
“Is that so?”
I feel it seconds before I hear it.
The air tightens, humming beneath as though something is waking after hundreds of years of sleep.
“Clara—move!” I shout.
The earth beneath her feet shudders violently. Her stance breaks as the soil ripples outward in a violent wave. She stumbles, lowering her weapon to catch herself.
Ruslan lunges toward her, but Wendell lifts one hand.
The ground between them splits open with a sharp crack. Ruslan drops to one knee as the turf buckles beneath him.
“Stop!” I bark, raising my weapon higher. “Now!”
Wendell laughs. The sound is low and almost pleased.
“You see,” he points out, voice carrying across the field, “what a true leader can do?”
I fire, but a sharp crack splits the air above me.
Instinct takes over. I dive.
A heavy branch crashes down where I’d been standing seconds earlier. Then another. And another. The tree overhead groans as limbs snap and plunge downward in a violent rain of splintering wood.
Pain flares across my shoulder as I hit the ground hard. Branches pile over me, weight driving the air from my lungs.
Through the chaos, I see Wendell lower both hands toward his waist, fingers curling upward as if pulling invisible strings.
The woods answer.
Roots tear free from the soil in grotesque coils, thick and writhing. They rise from the earth like living things, like tentacles, thrashing toward Ruslan and Clara.
“What the bloody—” Clara’s voice cuts off as one lashes around her ankle.
She fires, bullets ripping through bark and root, splinters exploding into the air. Another vine snaps toward her waist. Ruslan fights to stand as the ground keeps shifting beneath him.
“You see,” Wendell calls over the gunfire, “I can manipulate the elements. Bend the earth to my will.” His eyes lock on mine through the falling debris. “And now I will bend you.”
I shove upward, forcing branches off my chest. Wood scrapes across my arms as I wrench myself free, lungs burning.
Ruslan is wrestling a thick root away from his leg. Clara is still firing, jaw clenched as more vines snake toward her.
I reach for my comm, fingers slick with dirt.
“Blake,” I grunt. “Get out of here. Get Elena to safety. Now.”
Because this isn’t a confrontation.
It’s an execution waiting to happen.
And I won’t let her be here when it happens.