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But no. That’s madness. That betrothal contract has always been a sick man’s joke, a useless, toothless piece of paper.
There’s no way Alexei brought this army to acquire Alina.
My bullets take down five of the invaders before they realize where I am and open fire in my direction. I wait ten seconds, letting their bullets tear pieces of bark off my tree, then fire back, not bothering to aim. The goal now is to buy time for Pavel to get to the roof, and for our reinforcements to arrive—assuming they ever do.
Given the numbers we’re up against, it’s possible Kirilov and his men have already been taken out.
A hail of bullets ricochets off the nearby trees, missing my shoulder by centimeters. Alexei’s men are coming closer and fanning out, I realize grimly. If I stay here, I’ll be surrounded in no time, but if I make a run for it, their bullets will mow me down even faster.
Reaching a decision, I drop onto my stomach and smear dirt over my face to hide the light hue of my skin. Then I carefully peer out from behind the tree, using the tall weeds around me as cover.
As I suspected, the attackers have split into two groups—one to surround me, the other to continue on toward the house. Eight of the black-clad figures are on the driveway, approaching the front door, while five others are creeping around the house to the garage, presumably to try to get into the house from there.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, sweat soaking my back as a fresh hail of bullets kicks up chunks of dirt around me, yet I wait, still and silent, all my attention on the threat to my family, to the woman and child who are my entire life.
If I can save them, I’ll die happy.
If I can ensure their safety, nothing else matters.
I wait, and when the moment is right, I set off the driveway bomb, and a second later, the one by the garage entrance. They go off with the force of landmines, ripping apart everyone within a three-meter radius and painting the nighttime landscape red.
They also distract the men hunting me, who spin around to see their teammates being blown apart. Two seconds is all it buys me, but that’s all I need to jump to my feet and sprint for the cluster of trees by the side of the garage, looping around the line of heavily armed men in front of me. My goal is simple: protect the garage entrance at all costs, keeping them away from the underground safe room.
A bullet whizzes past my ear as I run. Another kisses my bicep with stinging fire.
They’re on to me.
It’s over.
A peculiar calm descends on me, the certainty that death is coming. My heartbeat slows fatalistically, yet my body keeps moving, my leg muscles pumping with greater effort. Some sixth sense makes me angle sharply right, then left, but a bullet still grazes my right shoulder, leaving another streak of fire in its wake.
The cluster of trees is closer now, a few long jumps away, but even a meter is too far when you’re out in the open with fuck knows how many guns spitting out lethal chunks of lead.
On instinct, I tuck and roll, and several bullets whizz above me, exactly where my torso and head would’ve been. The next set of bullets won’t be fooled, I know, but just as I prepare to feel them tear through my flesh, a violent explosion of sound erupts above—and my pulse speeds back to life as I recognize the rattle of a machine gun.
Pavel got to the roof.
I finally have cover.
Sure enough, he mows down the black-clad figures as they scatter back toward the forest, and I make it to the tree cluster and add my fire to Pavel’s efforts. Before long, all of our attackers—the ones who can still move, that is—have pulled back, their answering gunfire dying down as they take cover.
The machine gun ceases firing as well.
I wipe the sweat and dirt off my face and bring up my radio. “Kirilov? You there?”
A crackle, followed by static.
Fuck.
I switch channels. “Pavel?”
“Still here. But I think they got most of our men.”
I ignore the sharp pinching in my chest. “I know. It’s going to be a long fucking night.”
As I speak, I scan the forest, searching for any hint of movement. By my count, only twenty-four of our attackers are on the ground, leaving nine unaccounted for—plus however many of their comrades survived the battle with our guards.
I’m so focused on my task I almost miss the dark figure melting out of the shadows right by the garage entrance—and by the time I swing my gun toward it, it’s too late.
As the enemy dives aside to avoid my bullets, the garage door explodes into pieces, the shockwave nearly rupturing my eardrums.
