I want to run to the stable, but the hail of bullets drives me back toward the house. I have to drag myself around the corner to the back kitchen door. I find another rock to smash the knob, which opens the door but doesn’t set off any alarms. The invaders must have cut the alarm wires along with the lights.
I’ll give them credit for that, at least. We’ve got a damn good security system thanks to Zima, so that wouldn’t be an easy task. I’ll ask them how they did it before I shoot them in the face.
But first I’ve got to do something about this fucking leg, or I’ll never get across the yard to the stables. I can see the hole in my pants on the outer edge of my right thigh. That whole leg is drenched in blood. I’m assuming the bullet didn’t hit the femoral artery, or I’d already be dead. Still, I won’t have much longer if I keep bleeding like this.
I grab the closest thing at hand—a semi-clean tea towel—and I tie it tight around the wound. That does not feel good. Not at all. But thankfully, once I’ve cinched the towel tight, I’m able to drag myself into a standing position.
Holding onto the counter and the chairs, I take a few hobbling steps.
Good. Now I’m getting somewhere.
Until another fucking night ninja comes bursting through the door.
He’s all kitted up in tactical gear, just like the guy outside. But he isn’t holding his AR like a professional. Unfortunately, you don’t have to be too talented to aim those things. I yank open the refrigerator door to shield myself from the spray of bullets he sends in my direction.
I grab the closest thing at hand —a jar of pickles—and hurl it at him. This time my aim isn’t as good. He ducks and the jar shatters against the wall, filling the air with the scent of brine.
When he runs at me, I slam him with the whole fridge door instead, driving all my weight into it so it swings into his body, knocking him on his ass. Then I wrench open the closest drawer, pull out a rolling pin, and beat him with it over and over until his body stops twitching.
I drop the rolling pin, letting it roll away across the floor.
I’m weak and sweating, my leg shaking beneath me. But I don’t have time to rest. I’ve got to get to Lara.
I search the body for weapons, grabbing a Beretta off the man’s belt and checking the clip to make sure it’s loaded.
Two more people pause in the doorway. I get my gun up just in time to see that it’s Sloane and Ivan. Ivan fires three quick shots out the window, killing whoever was standing outside. Sloane and Ivan are moving room to room, back-to-back, covering each other. They’ve each got an AR at the ready, as well as several other weapons strapped to their persons. Sloane has a machete at her hip. I don’t know where she got it, but I’m fairly certain she didn’t own it before.
They motion to me, then quickly whirl around and begin shooting at someone out in the hall. Their movements are tight and coordinated, almost balletic. It’s beautiful to see.
But I don’t have time for them, or anyone else. Staggering back out the kitchen door, I head into the rain once more. My leg is like a wooden block barely attached to my body. Any minute it will give way.
I force it to swing along in pace with the other, as I try to run across the yard.
I’m getting to that stable, or I’ll die trying.
34
Lara
There is no greater warrior than a mother protecting her child.
N.K. Jemisin
I wait inside the stable, shaking with cold and fear.
It sounds like a war zone outside, bullets firing from all directions.
When Adrik drains one breast, I switch him to the other. It’s imperative that he doesn’t start crying again.
I know the Petrovs have enemies. Probably hundreds of them.
But I also know, deep down to my bones, that the men who broke into the compound are here for one thing only.
They want my son.
I knew it from the moment my father looked at me and saw the baby growing in my belly.
Adrik is a Petrov. And he’s also the last Kazarian. My family included cousins, second-cousins, uncles, bastards, and step-children. But there is only one direct heir to my father’s line.
Avo is in prison. Yet he’s sent his men to claim the last of his blood.
I will never, never, never let them take him.
They will have to tear me to pieces before I let them touch my son.
Adrik is my responsibility.
But my heart is imploding with fear for my husband. The thought that Dom could be bleeding to death in the yard is pure torture. I want to run to him; every second I have to stop myself from doing it. The only reason I don’t is because I know how angry he’d be if I put our baby at risk.
Dom could be dead already.
I can’t let myself even consider that.
Even though I know that if he were alive, he would do whatever it took to drag himself to me. He should be here. If he were alive, he’d be here.
I try to block that thought from my mind.
I have to watch the stairs. I have to protect Adrik.
After an interminable time, I hear the creak of the wooden boards below me. Someone has entered the stable.
I stay perfectly silent, my frozen fingers, stroking Adrik’s hair as he quietly nurses, half awake and half asleep. If it’s Dom or Sloane or one of the Petrov men, they’ll call out to me. If it’s someone else, I pray to god they’ll leave.
The person doesn’t leave. I can hear them walking the length of the stables, checking each of the stalls.
They’re looking for me.
And they’re trying to be quiet. Which means they know I don’t want to be found.
There’s a long pause in which I hope against hope that this man will simply turn around and go.
Then I hear the awful sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
As soon as his head appears, I’m going to put a bullet in it.
The footsteps ascend. And then they stop.
I hear a voice, horribly familiar. It has a slightly nasal tone to it that I’ll never forget.
“It’s been a long time, Lara,” Davit Kazarian says.
Davit is my father’s cousin’s son from his second marriage. I don’t know what the fuck that makes him to me, except just another one of my former jailers. He’s worked for Avo for the last ten years, even though he’s only five years older than me. He’s a little under six feet tall, stocky and strong, with a jaw like a pit bull. Some of the other men called him Chinstrap because of the stupid way he shaves his beard.
The last time I saw him, he was dragging my brother’s corpse across the yard. So, suffice it to say, I’m looking forward to shooting him.
However, before he comes any further up the stairs, Davit says, “I should let you know that I’m holding an incendiary grenade. If you get any bright ideas about shooting me, I’ll chuck it right at you. Even if it doesn’t blow you to bits, you’ll burn to death in this tinderbox.”
It would blow me to bits most certainly. And even if it didn’t, Davit is right that every last thing inside the stable is highly combustible. The air itself is thick with chaff. There’s a good chance that just the spark off my gun could set it ablaze.
Davit starts to climb the steps again. As soon as I see his ugly face, I’m still tempted to fire straight at it. Especially once I see he’s not holding a grenade at all. He’s such a fucking liar. But he’s a liar holding a Kalashnikov pointed right at my chest.