Page 85 of The Knight

He kept going, hands clamped to the wheel. Muzzle flashes tracked him as he carved channels of black soil through the green grass.

“Fox. Status?”

“Moving up the northwest staircase. Whatever you’re fucking doing, they’re peeling off like flies to shit.”

Abe wrenched the wheel again, power-sliding the Audi in a wide arc. The air filled with the snap-hiss of rounds. Grass and dirt geysered around the car as bullets hit dirt and metal. The Audi’s windows were a maze of spider-web fractures, marking the borrowed seconds of his remaining time.

But none of that mattered.

In the house, Fox moved unopposed toward Freya.

Everything else—the bullets, the rising chance he wouldn’t survive the next few minutes—was just noise.

He’d made his choice.

Now he’d make it count.

46

Freya forcedher eyes to stay fixed on the closed laptop in front of her, fighting the urge to look at the man who held her life in his hands.

She wasn’t wearing a watch, but she guessed it had been a few hours since the helicopter had touched down on the sweeping lawns of Korolov’s estate. Armed men had marched her through ostentatious rooms and up a curved staircase, their boots echoing against the polished floors. They’d secured her to the chair, then left her alone—letting fear do their work for them.

Books surrounded her. Floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound volumes. First editions, from the look of them. Rare collections. A reader’s paradise transformed into a prison.

Korolov lounged in a high-backed leather chair across the antique desk between them, his long fingers drumming the leather desktop as he gave instructions on the phone. Behind him, an open hearth cast his shadow long across the thick carpet.

Heat from the fire pressed against her face like a thick blanket.

It was hard to breathe.

To think.

Once she opened that laptop and he had what he wanted, her usefulness would end. And so would she.

Plastic ties secured her ankles to the chair legs. There was wet warmth where they had rubbed her skin raw and her shoulders throbbed from being manhandled during the helicopter journey. But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the wretched pull in her chest when she thought about Abe.

Her throat ached with words she’d never said. Simple words like “Don’t go” and “I love you.” All her life she’d kept her distance, built walls with professionalism and protocol, told herself it was safer that way. Now the weight of everything she wanted to say to Abe pressed against her ribcage like jagged stone.

The memory of his last touch, fingers pressed against the small of her back, sparked across her skin. Such a tiny moment. Would she have done anything differently if she’d known it would be the last?

The threat of tears stung her eyes. She had to forget Abe. Had to forget the safety she felt in his presence, the connection that had built between them without either of them noticing.

Nowwas all that mattered.

“It’s time for you to unlock your Pandora’s box, Jonsdottir.” Korolov set his phone down with deliberate calm, and gestured toward the computer.

Freya blinked back to the present moment, her brief mental escape shattered. With trembling hands, she opened the laptop’s security case. Blue light swept across her face—the computer’s imaging system confirming her identity even as she prayed it wouldn’t.

Korolov walked around to her side and gripped her shoulder with one hand. His fingers dug through muscle and tendon, pinching the nerves and sending a blaze of agony down her arm.

She gasped, eyes watering.

A soft oiled click and the cold barrel of a gun pressed against her temple. “Just in case you need some extra motivation to not do anything stupid.” His voice was dark velvet, promising endless pain.

She swallowed, her heart threatening to break free of her chest, her lungs refusing to give her air.

Think Freya. Think.

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