"When we get out of here," she says against my lips, "I'll do a lot more than that to you."
I kiss her again, harder this time, my hand fisting in her hair. Then I break away, my eyes blazing with lethal determination.
"Well, shit. You just sentenced everyone outside this door to death."
I raise my gun and start looking around the dark room with my flashlight, scanning for anything useful.
Danika steps forward beside me, her weapon raised.
"Well, exactly how do you plan on getting us out of here?"
"I'm working on that," I say as I shine the flashlight around the room, taking in every detail. The walls are bare concrete. The ceiling is low, maybe seven feet high, with exposed pipes running along the length of it. There's a grate in the floor near the far corner, probably for drainage. And in the opposite corner, above Danika, is an air vent.
"There," I say, pointing with the light.
She follows my gaze up, then looks at me, skeptical. "That vent is barely big enough for a person."
I smirk. "Good thing you're small."
She glares at me. "I'm not crawling through a vent."
"That's what you said about the dumbwaiter at the casino, and that turned out fine."
"Victor!"
"You have a better idea?"
Suddenly, a volley of shots slams into the door. We duck as the sound of metal groaning and ricocheting bullets fills the room, and I flash my light over to see if any passed through.
Luckily, they haven't.
"Dammit," she says and sighs. "Help me up."
28
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.
