Chapter 26
GOLDEN HOUR (HOLDEN)
Every second feels like a damn eternity passing as I pace by the guards at the end of the hall.
My feet scrape the marble floor.
Beyond the velvet ropes, a few kids stare as I stalk past. I must look like a madman, unable to keep still, and dammit, I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything except Cleo emerging safe and sound, free from the curse of the jeweled egg.
I shouldn’t have left her.
I shouldn’t have let her push me away.
Still can’t believe Talbot offered to have me evicted, but fuck, I guess he was just anxious to get this done. I can respect that.
A good sign, even if it doesn’t feel like one.
Here I am, stuck in my head, replaying every hour of the last few days where I could have done everything better.
When I pushed her away, I could’ve been gentler. I could’ve found the right combination of words to convince her this is for her own good, and mine.
Then she wouldn’t be alone in there, open to God only knows what.
Clee doesn’t have my instinct for liars.
I still don’t like the look on Talbot’s face, the way his eyes jumped around. There’s no good reason a man should be that sweaty over a standard hand off for a prearranged deal.
No reason Fairfax should be in there, either.
No fucking reason Fairfax should have gotten in touch.
No reason he should even know what’s going down.
How many pies does he have his fingers in?
By the time I reach the end of the hallway—taking my own sweet time as the security guards watch me with annoyance—I pause.
My ears bristle at the low voices filtering through the museum. Mostly visitors, a curator giving a guided tour, kids clowning instead of paying attention to—
That’s when I hear it.
A muffled thunk from deep inside the office, and Cleo’s faded scream.
I don’t think.
Reflex takes over. I charge that golden door to hell like a raging bull.
Faster, faster, ready to break the bastard down before anyone can stop me.
Talbot locked it, presumably to keep me out, but there isn’t anything that’s going to stop me.
Certainly not the yelling guards racing after me. They’re softer and out of shape, which gives me a few more seconds.
I ram my shoulder against it first, then swing back and kick the handle.
Once. Twice.
It’s dense wood, the kind that used to be normal in old buildings built like fortresses.
On the third kick, pain lances up my knee, but one of the double doors creaks open. I don’t even think before I’m through it.
“What the hell?” The words fall out automatically.
For a breathless second, I wonder if I’m hallucinating.
I see Fairfax, Talbot, Cleo—and a tall, grizzled man on the floor I immediately recognize as Viktor Guchkov.
Head of Black Talon.
What the actual fuck is he doing here?
He’s sprawled out in a mess of limbs, clutching his face and swearing in Russian. One hand scrabbles for something. Not a gun, but a radio.
Behind me, the security guards take one look through the open door and bolt away. Probably to get reinforcements or the cops.
Cleo stands beside him, one hand wrapped around the familiar black briefcase that’s brought us so much grief. She stares at Guchkov like she can’t believe he’s on the floor.
For half a heartbeat, she lifts her glassy gaze and we lock eyes.
A whole conversation happens without speaking a word.
Her lips move, and I know she wants to say my name.
No time, girl.
Everything whips by, though it feels like treading water.
The window—a small glint moving past the blind, probably coming from the tall building across the street.
“Get down!” I yell, kicking the radio out of Guchkov’s hand and diving after it.
Cleo hits the floor first. I’m grateful she doesn’t hesitate.
A panicked Talbot moves, too, plastering himself against the wall as he sinks down on his knees, muttering, “Oh God, oh God, oh God!”
The first bullet shatters the window and fills the room with dust. I wrap my hand around the radio and roll, coming up unharmed.
Guchkov drops his hands from his face, revealing a broken nose and an ugly, bloodied scrape around one eye. More pain for his battle-damaged face.
He cranes his neck and snarls, baring his teeth.
Clee must’ve gotten in a good hit. His vision seems impaired. I notice it in the way he moves his head, trying to focus, partly blinded.
That’s all I need.
I hit him first and we go down together before he can push off the ground.
Blinded or not, he’s still just as deadly. He elbows me in the ribs, spits blood in my face, but I add a few more scars to his ugly mug, skinning my knuckles as my fist crashes into his jaw.
He grunts and kicks my leg, but I fight through the pain.
He grabs his gun, tearing it from his belt and bringing it up to me, aiming at my throat.
“Holden!” Cleo’s scream wrecks me.
Snarling, I grab his thumb and wrench it back until I hear the vicious snap!
The gun falls and hits the floor.
When it lands, I half expect it to go off, but it doesn’t, skittering safely away.
Just man to man now, and I like my odds.
Especially when Clee shakes herself out of her trance, diving for the gun, wrapping her small fingers around it.
Good girl.
I can barely spare her a glance as I force the Russian down and slam my good knee against Guchkov’s throat.
“Give me the gun, sweetheart,” I whisper, holding up my hand.
Her trembling fingers brush mine as she passes it over.
After this, I owe her.
Infinitely more than the heartbreak I’ve served up on a silver platter.
I press the gun against Guchkov’s head and he stills. His dark, hazy eyes flick around the room desperately.
Asshole’s probably wondering how his scheme went so wrong. He must’ve planned this so carefully and had total confidence in the execution.
There’s a loud, rasping sound in the corner. Fairfax, I realize, turtling under the desk. I can’t tell if he’s been shot.
That’s for later.
“Don’t. Don’t move. Don’t think I won’t smear your brains on the floor,” I growl in his ear. Adrenaline throttles my nerves, but I’m still in full control.
I might need to ice that knee later, but right now, I barely feel it.
“Wait! He has hostages. Not here.” Cleo’s words trip over themselves as she says them. “I don’t know where. Children.”
A Russian voice crackles over the radio.
Fuck.
What’s at stake stabs me in the throat as I stare into Guchkov’s soulless black eyes.
He planned this well. A dead hand system for retribution we can’t just turn off.
There’s no stopping what’s in motion. But what’s taking the museum security so long?
I can already hear distant voices coming from the hall, and if I turn around, I’ll probably see faces peering through the ruined door.
The cops will roll up with a tactical team any second. And it won’t help us if Black Talon has goon squads ready to act remotely.
Time turns to mud again. My brain works too fast, grinding in the sludge like stuck wheels.
I need to stop innocent people from getting hurt, and with Guchkov down, I only have seconds.
The corner of his mouth curls bitterly.
He thinks he’s won, even if he gets arrested because good guys don’t take risks with people’s lives. That’s the lesson.
Even though he’s pinned down under me, he believes he has the upper hand. One last gasp of power and bloodlust before he goes into custody.
“Cleo,” I growl. “Get the egg out of its case. Now.”
“Huh?” I hear her gasp. “But—”
“Listen to me.”
Another second and I hear her unlock it. I don’t look away from Guchkov’s face, smeared with blood and still so smug.
“Not one move,” I warn coldly. “I’ll bury a bullet in your head before I let you hurt anyone else.”
“How noble.” He sneers thickly. “You talk like it isn’t too late.”
I bring my mouth closer to his ear. “There’s nothing fucking noble about me. You should know.”
He doesn’t move, but I sense him shrugging.
What the hell do I know about Black Talon?
They’re beyond morals and even concerns about their own survival. They’ve torn apart third world countries, squeezing blood and treasure from war zones.
Guchkov is roughly fifty and he’s been in this underworld his whole life. Bloodthirsty, cruel. Greedy.
I hear the case snap open. Someone makes a small, miserable noise, Talbot or Fairfax.
They hate exposing the Hera Egg to harm even in this mess. They’re collectors of precious things, whatever else they are.
Think, think!
Guchkov is the boss, but his son is a tactical leader. I remember it from my research. Odds are, he’s involved in a heist this big, probably overseeing goons at one of the hostage sites.
“Tell your men to stand down,” I say, holding up the radio. “If you don’t, tell your son he’ll hear your last breath.”
Surprise flickers in Guchkov’s black eyes.
If the bastard thought I wouldn’t do this, I wouldn’t be this cruel, he doesn’t know me.
And he doesn’t.
There’s a lot he doesn’t know.
After a second, he nods, and I switch the radio on. He barks in Russian and I hold my breath. I don’t know what he says.
Something in my gut tells me idle warnings won’t be enough. I have to show him I’m absolutely serious.
Luckily, I can do that without drawing blood.
I glance over at Cleo, holding the egg in her hands.
“Put it on the desk,” I whisper. “And stand back.”
“Mr. Verity, what are you—”
Fairfax has crawled out from under the desk, poking his head up, apparently not shot after all.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay the fuck down,” I growl.
His head dives.
Cleo doesn’t hesitate, setting the egg down and walking several paces away. Fairfax flattens himself on the floor as I raise the gun, aim, and fire.
The egg shatters.
Glittering shrapnel like flashing confetti.
Cleo screams.
Guchkov probably would’ve tried to yell something if I hadn’t been pressing down on his throat. Chips of blue and gold fly everywhere like the murder scene it is.
Fairfax sputters.
Talbot just falls to his knees, shaking his head, mouthing, “No…”