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He opened the door and stepped into the hallway. A large, broad-shouldered man with a scar that ran the length of his face was running down the hall, his weapon drawn. Lyon didn’t recognize him, but when he spotted Lyon, he hesitated, then kept running the other way.
Lyon continued down the hall, his weapon pointed outward. This was a shoot-first-ask-questions-later situation. Lyon wasn’ttaking a chance on not having time to draw his weapon, not when he was so close to freedom.
The hall was curved brick rising to a barrel ceiling. The gunfire echoed, bouncing off concrete and brick, and the familiar smell of damp assaulted his nose. He turned a corner and spotted old railway tracks leading to more tunnels.
He was in the freight tunnels that ran under the city.
He kept going, slowed down to take the next corner, and nearly tripped over a body.
And this one he recognized.
It was one of the men on Oleg’s crew. Lyon didn’t know him well, but he’d seemed like an ambitious, loyal soldier.
He was also too young, too inexperienced to be here, trying to rescue Lyon.
“Fuck,” Lyon muttered as gunfire erupted around the corner, only feet from his position.
He didn’t know if the younger man was alive, but he wasn’t leaving him behind.
He looked at the concrete wall and braced himself for the coming pain, then charged at it with his right shoulder.
It popped back into place with a torturous click, and Lyon stifled a scream, fighting against the blackness encroaching on his vision, willing it to clear before someone happened on him in the tunnel.
It hurt like a motherfucker, but even this pain was better than the pain of a dislocated joint.
When he felt reasonably sure he could continue, he bent to pick the man up. The cuts on his chest protested, and he felt a fresh rush of hot blood trickle down his abdomen.
He used his left arm to throw the younger man over his shoulder, glad the kid was slight, and repositioned his weapon, then turned the corner toward the sound of the gunfire.
He almost tripped over another body, but this one he didn’t recognize, and when he lifted his gaze, he saw another man standing at the end of the hallway.
The man had a gun aimed at Lyon, but a second later he blinked in astonishment. “Lyonya?”
It was Rurik.
“It’s… it’s me.” Lyon’s voice sounded strange to his own ears. He’d hardly spoken since he’d been taken prisoner. The only sound to erupt from his mouth had been screams on those occasions when he couldn’t hold them back anymore.
Rurik glanced behind him, then raced toward Lyon.
11
“They’ve got him,” Alek said.
Kira stared at him across the pavement outside the warehouse. “They’ve… got him?”
“He’s alive,” Alek clarified. “And they’ve got him. He was in the tunnels.”
Kira’s knees nearly buckled, and her arms flew out to try and grab on to something. There was nothing there, but a second later, Alek was at her side, steadying her by the elbow.
“Oh my god…” He was alive. Lyon was alive.
She stumbled toward the warehouse where she’d left her bag.
“Where are you going?” Alek asked her.
“To Lyon. I’m going to Lyon.” She didn’t know where he was, where he would be in an hour, but wherever it was, she would be there too.
“Kira…. wait.”
