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I put my weapon away. This isn’t ideal. Dead men don’t talk, and Ineedsomeone talking. “What about the fourth suspect? Any sign of him?”
“No, ma’am.”
I take in my surroundings, alarmed by what I see. For hired guns, they sure as hell are organized. This place is practically a free-standing armory. Large wooden crates are stacked up in the corner, full of semi-automatic machine guns and several hundred rounds of ammunition. Pinned to the far wall are maps and schematics, as well as pictures of all four Antonov brothers.
I approach slowly, my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach. It’s not just the Antonovs they’ve been keeping track of. A picture from the night Luka was stabbed… I’m at his side… and Tabitha is in frame, too.
Before I truly start to panic, I notice several pictures taken at a distance of Luka’s safehouse. They’ve captured me coming and going. They’ve got our patrol pattern figured out, too. If these people knew where we stashed Luka this whole time…
“The fourth man,” I rasp.
“What did you say?” Gomez asks.
My thoughts fire a mile a minute. Luka is in danger. If the fourth shooter isn’t here, what are the chances he’s heading to the safehouse right now?
“We need to get to Luka,” I say hastily. “He’s—”
I cut myself off when I hear a small, faintbeep. I go rigid, turning my head slowly when I spot a strange device in the corner of the room. I hadn’t noticed it before because there was frankly too much to pay attention to, but now that I’ve locked eyes with the device, I’m stunned in my horror.
A large brick of C4, wired to a digital clock counting down from ten. This whole place was rigged to blow from the start. They knew we were coming and wanted to take us all with them.
“BOMB!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “EVERYBODY, GET O—”
I feel the force of the explosion before the heat. It knocks me back, rattling my eardrums and slamming against my ribcage. Then comes the fire, flames licking at my skin and hair and clothes. The unlucky officers closest to the bomb burn where they stand, dead in an instant. Drywall crumbles, wooden beams splinter, glass bursts into shards.
I’m nothing more than a ragdoll, thrown mercilessly against the floor. My head hits the wall behind me. I hear something crack. I really hope it isn’t my skull.
Something heavy lands on me. A body. Gomez? I can’t be sure. Not when my lungs burn like wildfire and debris tears at my throat.
The ringing in my ears is incessant. Disorienting. How many of us survived? How many are dead? Why can’t I move my body?
Through the smoke, I spot a pair of boots approaching. There’s too much pain in my neck to turn my head, so I can’t get a good look. What Idosee is that this person is indiscriminately shooting survivors… and now they’re coming right toward me.
I struggle to sit up. To focus. To do anything other than reel in the aftermath. I must whimper or groan because the unidentified attacker hushes me gently.
“There, there…” comes the sound of a woman’s voice. I recognize it. Shrill and nasally. Where have I met this woman before? “Don’t worry, Harper. I’ve been given express orders not to kill you. You’re safe… for now.”
I crane my neck, fighting through the pain like a thousand tiny needles shredding through my skin and muscles. The woman removes her respirator. She greets me with a cruel smile.
“Pritt,” I hiss. “You fucking traitor.”
She strikes me across the temple with the butt of her gun.
Everything goes black.
Chapter 21
Luka
It’s a calm, quiet night.
That’s how I know something’s wrong.
The patrol team assigned to keep an eye on the safehouse normally takes a drive around the neighborhood every four hours, moving parking spots to keep the neighbors from becoming overly suspicious. Except they haven’t gone through the usual rigamarole. Strange, but not alarming.
Whatdoesalarm me is the fleet of black SUVs that pull right up onto the driveway, all the windows tinted black and impossible to see through. When the doors swing open and the passengers step out…
“Fuck,” I grumble.
