I slowly turn over the engine and drive closer to the warehouse Klem is in.
Their voices carry on the night air.
I move closer on foot after the argument starts. Using the darkness between the stacked shipping containers, I inch up to the side door of the warehouse. It's left cracked for ventilation, and sound travels easily in the damp stillness.
At first, it is just Fadir’s condescending voice, the one he uses when he wants to sound reasonable. Then hers… sharp, and full of rage. It's her raw fury that hits me harder than I expect.
“I said it before, and I'll say it again. I allowed you to gaslight me.” She doesn’t hesitate. “But never again!”
I freeze against the cold metal wall, listening. Her pain isn’t calculated. It is real, jagged, like the kind that came from betrayal that cut deep.
Fadir’s response is textbook gaslighting, almost as if she knew it was coming… soft, patronizing, and laced with just enough threat to keep her in line. Then the sound of movement. A gasp. The unmistakable hiss of a hand cutting through the air.
My hand is already on the door before any conscious thought can catch up. Strategy screams at me to wait and let him strike her, to let the moment cement her hatred, to make her more useful as leverage later. But my instinct, which is a quieter, more mature voice I usually keep chained, overrides everything.
I step inside.
The warehouse lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across crates stamped with half-faded lettering. Fadir stands in the center, hand raised, face twisted with the kind of petty rage that makes lesser men sloppy.
The girl, Anja Kuzmin, according to the files I’d pulled on her, stumbles back a step, her eyes wide with shock and defiance. Long black hair with auburn highlights catches the light as she turns her head.
She is taller than I expected, maybe five-nine in her sneakers, built with the kind of graceful length that suggests she’d once moved through the world with more confidence than she carries now.
One of Fadir’s men has her by the arm, thick fingers digging in. She is fighting, but it is clear she knows she can’t win.
I let the door slam behind me. The sound cracks like a shot.
Fadir’s head snaps around. Recognition flares in his eyes, followed immediately by fear.Good.
“Building’s wired,” I say, voice level, almost conversational. I keep the Glock visible at my side but don’t raise it. No need. The threat is in the calm. “Explosives set. My command. Detonates in ninety seconds unless I walk out of here with the girl!”
The room goes still except for the faint drip of water from the roof. Fadir’s face drains of color. His mouth opens, then closes. “Sokolov...”
I don’t wait for the rest. I cross the concrete floor in three strides, wrap my fingers around the girl’s upper arm, firm enough to guide, but not leave evidence, and pull her toward the door. She stumbles once but catches herself, breath coming in sharp bursts. Her skin is cold through the thin sleeve of her jacket.
Fadir’s men reach for weapons. Their boss’s voice cracks out in panic. “Stand down! Everybody stand down, youduraks!”
Fadir is smart for once.
Rain has started again by the time we reach the SUV. I open the passenger door and guide her inside with the same steady pressure. She slides in without resistance, though her hands tremble as she clutches the seatbelt. I round the hood, get behind the wheel, and pull away from the curb, smooth and unhurried. In the rearview mirror, Fadir’s silhouette appears inthe warehouse doorway, shouting something I can’t hear over the engine.
For the first mile, the only sound is her ragged breathing and the rhythmic swipe of the wipers.
Then she explodes.
“Who the hell are you?” Her voice cracks on the last word. She twists in the seat to face me, dark emerald eyes blazing even through the fear. “You just wired a building with explosives? Are you insane? What kind of criminal does that?”
I keep my eyes on the road, hands relaxed on the wheel at ten and two. The city lights streak past in wet blurs of neon orange.
“Alexey Sokolov,” I answer evenly. “And you’re safe now.”
“Safe?” she laughs, bitter and sharp. It doesn’t suit her intense vulnerability, I’d heard in the warehouse. “You dragged me out at gunpoint after threatening to blow everyone up. That’s not safe, that’s kidnapping with extra steps. Pull over. Let me out. I’ll call a cab or… or walk. I don’t care.”
“You won’t make it three blocks before Fadir’s men find you. He’s not the man you thought him to be, Anja. You already know that much.” I don’t slow down.
She flinches at her name. Of course she does. I’d done my homework.
Anja Kuzmin, twenty-one, a former marketing assistant, ran away from some nowhere town in the Midwest where her father’s debts had nearly sold her off like chattel. The files paint a picture of someone scrappy, but cornered.
