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Alexei checks his watch. “Five minutes.”

Dima calls from the front passenger seat. “The SUV is coming up.”

An engine roars on our right. The black SUV races along the shoulder and pulls level with the passenger side, its dark windows hiding the people inside.

The rear passenger window slides down.

“Down.” Alexei grabs the back of my coat and pulls me toward him.

Gunfire tears into the side of the ambulance. Bullets punch through the metal above us, and Dmitri jerks the vehicle toward the center line of the eastern bypass.

I slam into Alexei’s chest as he forces my head down beneath his arm.

“Why are they shooting?” I shout. “They think Misha is in here.”

“I know.” His body folds over mine as another burst hits the ambulance. “Keep your head down.”

The sudden movement pulls at his wound. I feel his breath stop, then leave him through clenched teeth, but his arm stays locked around my head.

“They don’t care if they kill him,” I say.

“No.” Alexei presses me lower as the ambulance swerves again. “They only care that no one else gets him.”

Dima fires through the open passenger window. The black SUV drops back, then moves forward again.

“They’re committing,” Dmitri says through his teeth as he fights the wheel.

Roman’s voice breaks through the radio. “Gray sedan firing. Closing from behind.”

The ambulance passes the abandoned weigh station beside the railway bridge.

Two Volkov vehicles burst from the service yard. Ilya’s first SUV cuts across the road behind us, forcing the black vehicle toward the barrier. His second blocks the gray sedan before it can turn around.

Roman comes up from the rear.

The trap closes around both cars.

Dima twists in his seat and watches through the cab window. “Ilya has the SUV. Roman is taking the sedan.”

Roman’s voice follows through the radio. “The sedan is secure. The driver dropped a burner. I have it.”

More shots follow behind us, but Dmitri keeps driving.

Alexei releases my coat and sits up carefully. A dark patch spreads beneath his shirt near the lower edge of his dressing.

I reach for him. “You’re bleeding.”

“Later,” he says, holding my wrist. “Stay down until we clear the bridge.”

A siren sounds ahead.

An ambulance comes toward us in the opposite lane with its lights flashing. The name of my hospital runs across the hood.

Dmitri touches the radio. “Kirill, identify the oncoming medical vehicle.”

Keys click through the speaker.

“Real hospital registration,” Kirill says. “Dispatch sent it to a road accident on the Vorontsovskoye Shosse. Two-man crew, emergency clearance active.”