Page 4 of Claim

“Bring her out!” he repeats.

Time to go.

Skirting down the far side of the house, I manage to just reach the hidden entry when an explosion rocks the building, throwing me forward with the blast.

Shit.

Rubble nearly blocks the door from swinging open.

Zoya is huddled in the corner, her wide eyes rimmed with tears. That full lower lip trembles as I reach out to her.

“Come on. We need to hurry.” I can hear Ivan’s voice calling through the house.

He’s inside.

Waving my palm, I try to beckon her to take it.

This isn’t the circumstance to freeze.

“I’ll carry you if you can’t walk,” I growl, barely able to keep the impatience out of my voice.

Fuck it.

Grabbing her, I toss her over my shoulder like a sack of fermenting potatoes and begin to trot towards Sergy’s end.

“Mikhail. How did I know you’d be a part of this betrayal?” My father stands, silhouetted by the bright lights of the vehicles outside, a wave of smoke surrounding him makes him look like the devil himself stepping from the gates of hell. Flames lick the fractured beams that litter the ground, flickering ominous orange on his enraged features.

Shit. I’m trapped.

I let Zoya slide down my body, and push her behind me so I’m between her and my father.

“Give her to me.” Ivan unsheathes a long knife and stalks towards me.

“Fuck you. She’s practically a child, and you’re a monster.” I wish I had a weapon.

A twisted piece of rebar sticks out of a broken piece of concrete. With a hard jerk, I’m able to free the gnarled metal and hold it in front of me.

It isn’t perfect, but it’ll work.

“That’s my wife.” He points with the tip of the blade. “Return her at once.”

“Over my dead body,” I grunt, squaring off.

“Such a simple demand,” he yells as he rushes me.

He’s fast for being so old, nearly overtaking me before I swing catching him in a glancing blow to the hip.

With a trained pivot, his arm rotates around and the edge of his knife scores me down my side.

Pain rips through my ribs when he tears a ragged line through my flesh.

Staggering away from him, I lash out with the rebar to keep him at bay. When he dives forward for another stab, I swing and connect with his thigh just above the knee.

With a roar, the knife tumbles from his hand and bounces on a piece of rubble. “You good for nothing piece of shit,” he grumbles, rolling over the debris scattered floor.

Now’s my chance. Lunging, I raise my bar over my head to drop it on him.

But he twists, holding a burning chunk of beam as a club, he fends me off and continues the thrust until it skewers me in the face.

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