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Abramov fires twice down the stairs, then grabs Alexei’s other arm. “How bad?”

“I can’t tell until I see it. He needs to stop twisting, stop trying to fight, and stop treating blood loss like a hobby.”

Alexei steadies himself between us. “You're unpleasant when worried.”

I push harder against the dressing. “I was unpleasant before this.”

A guard leans over the railing, checks below, and raises two fingers. “One down. Another moved toward the rear exit.”

Abramov taps his earpiece and listens. “The street team has the sedan boxed, and the first armored vehicle is moving into the rear lane. We have less than a minute.”

We start down again. The guard behind us fires once, retreats two steps down, and fires again. Each shot buys us another landing. Abramov counts heads at every landing, checking Alexei, me, and Misha before signaling the lead guard onward.

Alexei drags his left leg every few steps. I feel each stumble through the arm across my shoulders, but I keep my hand pressed against his side while Misha clings to my neck.

We reach the second-floor landing as one of Belov’s men bursts through the corridor door. The lead guard fires, and the man drops backward as the door slams against the wall.

“Go,” Abramov shouts, waving us past the body.

We clear the first-floor landing without stopping. By the time we reach the ground floor, rain is blowing through the open exit.

The rear lane runs from the exit toward the street. Headlights swing around the corner as an armored vehicle charges toward us, its tires spraying water. The side door opens before it stops.

Gunfire cracks from the street, followed by an answering burst from the Volkov men in the alley. One Volkov guard drops to one knee, grabs his shoulder, and keeps firing.

Abramov points toward the vehicle. “Vera first. Alexei behind her.”

“I’m not leaving him on the stairs.” I tighten my arm around Alexei.

“You’re taking the child out,” Abramov says, catching Alexei’s coat. “I have him.”

Alexei pulls away and straightens through force alone. “We move together.”

Blood has soaked the side of his shirt. I step close enough that he has to look at me.

“Stay on my left. Keep your arm over my shoulders. Don’t turn around unless someone shoots me first.”

Alexei settles his arm across my shoulders. “Is that an order?”

“It’s the one you have.”

Abramov signals, and two guards run into the rain. I follow with Misha against my chest and Alexei leaning into my side. Abramov covers us with his pistol aimed toward the street. Cold water hits my face, but I don’t stop to wipe it away. A shot strikes the metal door behind us. Another hits the pavement near Alexei’s foot.

He turns toward the street, putting himself between us and the black sedan across the road.

“Car,” Abramov yells, firing toward the alley.

I pull Alexei forward. “You don’t get to shield us by falling on top of us.”

“I can choose a direction.”

“Choose the vehicle.”

We reach it together. A guard carries my bag, and I lift Misha into the rear compartment before climbing after him.

The man seated across from Misha and me looks past my shoulder at Alexei bleeding in the doorway, then exhales through his nose.

Alexei lifts two fingers in a weak salute. “Pakhan.”