Andrey hears it, too, and he cocks his head, his eyes darting toward the door, as the hand holding the gun trembles for a moment. I briefly wonder if I can get to the door in time, yet know in an instant that it’s impossible, especially after being shot in the arm. And though I can’t tell whether he’s still alive, Dean is definitely out of commission, his eyes closed, his face pale and waxen, his gun too far away for me to reach in time.
Gunfire erupts and the building rattles, shouts ring out in Russian, adding to the chaos.
I expect Andrey to curse, to be furious that his plans have been foiled, but instead, he looks back at me, his face alight with a predatory, triumphant exultation. His plan has finally come to fruition; he has everyone exactly where he wants them to be.
“He’s here,” Andrey says, his mouth lifting in a terrifying grin as he raises his gun and aims it directly at my chest. “He’s minutes away from his worst nightmare happening again, his torment only beginning.”
The sound of the fighting is like music to Andrey’s ears. Dmitri is here; he’s storming the gates. Whether he’s coming for me or coming after Andrey, he’s just in time to watch the psychopath kill me.
Andrey’s smile is cold and sinister, a frigid promise of oblivion. I know there is no way to avoid it this time, and I wait for the impact, the sudden end of everything.
But then, the wall next to Andrey’s head explodes in a shower of plaster, brick dust, and glass as the window explodes inward, followed instantly by the deafening crack of a rifle.
Andrey curses and stumbles back, clutching his shoulder as I duck behind a abandoned desk that’s been tipped over on its side, though it’s too flimsy and broken to afford much coverage. I clutch at my own shoulder as new pain detonates in my arm from the movement, my hand comes away skin sticky with blood.
“Clara!”
Dmitri’s shout, a sound of pure, unleashed, primal fury, rings out from the stairwell. Suddenly, the sound of his voice is the only thing that matters. He’s here. He’s found me. He’s fighting to reach me.
“Dmitri!” I scream his name, hoping the sound of my voice will guide him.
More fighting and more gunfire erupt from the stairwell. Andrey curses again, struggling to bring his gun up with one arm. Then a wall on the other side of him explodes, his eyes flicking out the window from where the shots are coming.
The door crashes open, wood splinters flying everywhere. Dmitri stands there, covered in blood and dust, his face a mask of terrifying, murderous focus.
My attention shifts to him, overwhelming relief flooding my system and shutting out the pain, until Andrey seizes my arm and drags me out of my hiding place. I scream in pain as he wrenches my arm, and I momentarily black out from the sheer agony.
“Andrey!” Dmitri snarls like a predator, fangs bared and dripping. His eyes burn with fury, promising an agonizing, horrifying death when he gets his hands on his prey.
“Dmitri. This is what I’ve been waiting for.” I can’t see Andrey’s face, but I can hear the triumph in his voice.
“Do this, and I will never stop hunting you,” Dimitri swears. “I will make your life a living hell. I will make sure I take everything from you, tear you apart piece by piece, torture you until you’re begging for death.”
I meet Dmitri’s eyes, seeing a flash of pure rage and despair, thehopelessnessof a man forced to watch his world shatter again.
“You’re too late, Dmitri.” Andrey’s grin isn’t quite human.“I took everything then, and I will take everything now, and I will enjoy every second of it.”
There’s another deafening shot from a rifle, and a second wall explodes. Andrey maneuvers out of the way, pulling me with him, his grip like iron.
Then, I hear two pops in quick succession, and Andrey’s hand jerks, tightening on my arm.
I cry out in pain, darkness dotting my vision, but then his hand loosens and falls away, along with his body.
Everything is still, as though time has frozen. All I can hear is the ragged gasping of my own breath and the pounding of the blood in my ears, as my heart beats at a frantic rhythm.
“Clara?”
Dmitri’s voice is rough, breathless, apprehensive.
“Clara, are you okay?”
My brain finally registers that Andrey isn’t holding me anymore. It takes another few seconds to realize he’s dead. He’s lying on his back, a pool of deep crimson blood spreading beneath him, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. There is a hole in the center of his forehead and one in the center of his chest.
“Clara.”
Dmitri crosses the space to me, his eyes full of concern, his voice ragged. Blood runs down the side of his face from a deep gash in his forehead, staining his black shirt and tactical vest. A bruise has already blossomed on his cheek, and when he movestoward me, he limps. He’s still holding his weapon, as though he believes Andrey will sit up again and come after me.
“Dmitri?”
