28. Danika
DANIKA
Victor walks beneath the vent, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness and illuminating the grated opening above us.
"Let's do it," he says, then lifts me with ease. As he raises me, his palms shift, gripping my ass firmly to support my weight as I rise toward the ceiling. The pressure of his hands burns through my jeans, and I glance down at him, arching an eyebrow.
He winks.
Even now. Even with bullets hammering the door behind us and death literally seconds away, Victor Ionescu finds time to be ridiculous.
I roll my eyes and turn my attention to the vent. The grate is held in place by four screws, their heads rusted and caked with years of grime. I press my hand against the metal, testing its strength. It doesn't budge.
"It's got four screws," I say, looking down.
Victor shifts his grip, steadying me.
"Here," he says.
I look down, and he's holding out a knife. I reach for it, my fingertips brushing across his as I take the handle.
I grip the knife tightly, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand.
The tempo of the gunfire outside has slowed. The men are regrouping and strategizing, maybe, so we don't have much time.
I jam the tip of the blade into the first screw and start turning. The metal resists my efforts at first, but I apply steady pressure until it begins to loosen.
"I'm going in here, fine," I say, my voice strained with effort as I work the screw free. "What about you?"
Victor doesn't answer immediately. I pause, glancing down at him before continuing.
"Once you're up there," he says finally, "you'll need to find another way to let me out. Or cause a distraction. Either works."
I stop unscrewing and stare down at him. The idea of leaving him alone in this room sends a wave of unease through me that I can't ignore.
"I don't like leaving you."
Victor smiles, and it's that same infuriating, confident smile that makes me want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure.
"I know it'll be hard not to be with me, but I'll be fine. I always am."
I scoff, turning back to the vent. "That's not as reassuring as you think it is."
The first screw drops, and I move on to the second. This one comes free more easily, spinning with little effort. The third, however, is stubborn. The threads are stripped, the head worn smooth, and I have to wedge the knife tip into the groove at an angle just to get any traction.
My palms are sweating, and the handle of the knife slips slightly.
I adjust my grip, cursing under my breath.
Victor's hands remain steady on my body, holding me in place as I struggle with the screw.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, it gives.
I yank it free and toss it aside, the small piece of metal clattering somewhere in the darkness below.
The fourth screw takes even longer. My shoulders burn with the strain of holding my arms above my head, and my fingers ache from gripping the knife so tightly.
But I refuse to stop. I picture the men outside that door, picture them storming in, picture Victor alone and defenseless, and I push through the pain.
At last, the final screw comes loose. I pull the grate free, holding it carefully to avoid making noise, and hand it down to Victor. He sets it aside, then reaches up to steady me again.
"Flashlight," I say, holding out my free hand.
He passes it to me without a word, and I shine the beam into the vent. The vent is wider than I thought, and stretches ahead, disappearing into darkness. It smells of dust and old, stagnant air. Cobwebs cling to the corners, and I can see smudges of rust along the interior walls.
"Ugh, I really don't like this," I say.
Victor's voice is gentle but firm. "I know, but you have to do this."
I look down at him, searching his face in the dim light. His jaw is set, his eyes steady. He believes in me. Trusts me. And for some reason, that belief matters more than anything else right now.
Before I can respond, Victor pulls me down quickly, his hand cupping the back of my neck. His lips crash against mine, fast and fierce. I kiss him back with equal intensity, pouring everything I can't say into that single moment. When we break apart, I'm almost breathless.
"You better not die," I say in a low tone.
"I'll do my best," he says, then tosses my gun up into the vent, followed by the flashlight. Both clatter softly against the metal, and I wince at the noise, but there's no reaction from outside the door.
I hesitate, glancing back at him. "You'll be in the dark."
Victor just nods. "It's been that way most of my life, until you came into it," he says, not even giving me a moment to respond to that. "Now go."
He lifts me, and I grip the edge of the vent. With a grunt of effort, I pull myself up, my arms straining as I haul my body into the shaft. The metal is cold against my skin.
Once I'm inside, I start crawling.
I have to keep my elbows tucked close to my body to avoid making noise. I let my arms do all the pulling, dragging my body forward inch by inch. The metal shifts softly beneath my weight, and I freeze each time, holding my breath and waiting to see if anyone heard, but no one does.
My forearms hit the cold metal repeatedly, the skin already tender from the effort. My shoulders burn with exertion, but I refuse to stop. Every second I waste is another second Victor is alone in that room.
The shooting stops completely, and light suddenly spills in from a vent farther ahead.
They turned the lights back on.
I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest. Below me, through the thin metal, I hear men talking in Russian. Their voices are muffled but clear enough for me to make out the words.
"What happened to the lights?" a man asks.
"Someone turned the power breaker off, and there are dead guards outside," another says.
"How many intruders are there?" Maybe it's the first man, but I can't tell.
"We don't know," another man says.
Then there's a pause, followed by another voice I haven't heard before, more authoritative. "We have to storm that room and get her. Dimitri wants her alive. We have to move. Now."
I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep moving toward the faint glow up ahead. My arms shake with exhaustion, but I push forward, dragging myself toward the light.
When I reach it, I peer through the grate. It's a small utility room of some kind. There's a table in the center below me, some boxes stacked against the wall, and nothing else. I push on the grate, testing its strength, but it's screwed in tightly.
"Shit," I say.
I pull out the knife again, jamming it into the corner of the grate.
I pry hard, grunting with effort, and the metal snaps with a sharp crack.
I freeze, my breath catching, but no one comes.
I repeat the process on the other three corners, and the grate falls.
I reach out and catch it, almost falling.
I put it behind me and look around.
The only way down is a drop onto the table. I hesitate for a moment, but I know I don't have any time to waste.
I set my gun and flashlight aside, take a deep breath, and roll out.
My shoulder slams hard into the table, the impact jarring, and I tumble onto the floor. Pain shoots through my arm, sharp and hot, and I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out.
"Son of a bitch," I say, clutching my shoulder.
I stand on the table and reach up, my hand blindly searching around the vent for my gun and flashlight.
When I find them, I jump down from the table and move toward the door, pressing my ear against the wood.
The Russians are still talking.
I watch shadows shift beneath the doorframe, then glance back up at the vent and follow it to the wall, mentally mapping what I just crawled through.
There were no turns. It was just a straight line.
That means I'm at the end of the hallway. So going out this door should put me directly behind the men preparing to breach Victor's room.
I take a few deep breaths and rest my hand on the handle.
Please let me be right.
Suddenly, a massive volley of shots is fired. The sound is deafening, echoing through the hallway, and my heart stops.
Victor.
I turn the handle and throw the door open.
A guard is standing directly in front of me, his gun raised as he fires down the hall at Victor's door. I raise my pistol inches from the left side of his face and squeeze the trigger. His body drops before he even knows I'm there.
I step over the body and turn to look down the hall.
Three more men are stacked up, moving forward and firing into Victor's room. I fire again. The bullet catches the second man in the back of the head, and he falls forward, collapsing.
This time, it doesn't go unnoticed.
The man to the dead guard's left catches his falling comrade and turns to look over his shoulder. Before he can shout a warning, I fire. The bullet obliterates his right eye, and he goes down in a spray of blood and brain matter.
The last man spins around wildly, his gun sweeping the hall. He fires into the wall as I let off two rounds that slam into his upper chest. He stumbles backward against the door and slides down, leaving a thick red streak behind.
I keep my gun trained on him, moving slowly. When I'm close enough, I kick his weapon away and check his pulse. Nothing.
I lean against the heavy, bullet-dented door and call out.
"Victor. Victor, it's me."
There's a tense moment of silence. Then the heavy deadbolt unlocks, and the door swings open. Victor is standing there, looking down at me.
"Took you long enough," he says with his familiar smile.
I brush a loose strand of hair out of my face with the barrel of my gun. "Well, I had a few things to take care of."
Victor nods, his gaze dropping to the dead man at my feet, then looking past me.
“I guess it was your turn to save me,” he says and leans down and gives me a kiss.
Then he takes my hand.
"Come on. This isn’t over. I'm going to kill that motherfucker."