Page 167

Her bullet strikes his forearm. The gun turns in his grip, and his shot enters the ceiling above me.

I cross the distance before he can recover. My shoulder drives into his chest, and we hit the floor beside the Blacklist files. My incision pulls beneath the dressing, but I trap his wounded arm beneath my knee and strike him across the mouth.

Belov reaches for the pistol with his other hand. I break two of his fingers against the concrete. He makes one hard sound and tries to throw me off. His hand catches my incision, and my vision blurs as he drives his thumb into the wound.

Vera kicks his fallen gun beyond the scattered files.

Dima reaches us a second later and presses his boot against Belov’s neck. “Alive?”

“For now,” I say, pushing myself upright.

Dima rolls Belov onto his stomach and binds his hands behind him. Belov spits blood onto the files bearing Vera’s name.

I leave him with Dima.

Vera is still holding the stolen pistol, though the barrel has begun to shake. The guard she cut lies beside the crate with both hands pressed against his bleeding wrist and leg.

I take the weapon from her carefully and place it on the floor.

“Look at me,” I say, touching her face.

“Your side is bleeding.”

“Look at me.”

Her green eyes lift to mine. Blood marks her cheek, wrists, and the shoulder of her sweater. I run my hands over her arms, neck, ribs, and waist, checking every place Belov’s men could have hurt her.

Vera grips my shirt. “I already told you where I’m hurt. My shoulder and my hands.”

“You leave things out when you think I’ll worry.”

Her eyes drop to the blood soaking through my shirt. “You can’t call me reckless.”

I press my forehead to hers and feel her breath against my mouth. Behind us, men shout for restraints and medical kits, while Dmitri kicks another weapon across the floor.

Vera is standing. She’s speaking. Her fingers remain knotted in my shirt, warm and firm. “I’m here, Alexei. I’m here.”

I kiss her, hard enough to feel her answer, then pull back. Dima passes me his knife, and I cut the remaining restraint from her wrist.

“Misha?” she asks, rubbing the torn skin.

“Inside the inner family suite. Sergei confirmed it before we entered.”

Her shoulders lower, and she closes her eyes for one breath.

Maksim crosses the office with Abramov behind him. Zaitsev, Kozlov, and Tarasov remain near the wall while their guards collect weapons from the survivors. Chernov swears beside the archive boxes while one of Dmitri’s men binds his wrists and another wraps his ruined knee.

Vera looks over. “Nice work, Chernov. Looks like you’ll finally visit Zarya as a patient.”

“How did you reach the loading hall?” I ask Dmitri.

“Through the waste yard by the river,” Dmitri says. “Roman’s men followed Chernov’s van there after the Lyubertsy attack. An old service tunnel connects the yard to this loading hall.”

Vera looks at the black Sable Crown crates stacked beyond the broken door. “The same route they used to move the supplies.”

Dima pulls Belov to his knees.

Blood covers Belov’s mouth and shirt, but he looks at Vera instead of Maksim. “The surgeon thinks she won.”