Page 123 of Dangerous Beginnings

Chapter 66

The Beginning of Sacrifice

Isabella

The cold night air bites at my skin as I’m pushed out of the safety of the cabin, forced to stand at the center of the clearing like a pawn caught between two forces. My legs feel weak beneath me, and I can barely keep my footing as I’m guided outside. The darkness wraps around me, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating weight of the eyes on me—laser sights from rifles, the sharp glint of gunmetal, all trained directly at my chest.

The cabin behind me now stands empty, its warmth and shelter a distant memory. Every corner of the house is a ghost, no longer offering any protection. Every inch of the yard is filled with the tension of a standoff, a battlefield where I don’t know the rules—where I am the only thing that matters.

Aslanov stands a few paces away, his face taut with intensity, his eyes scanning the other side, but they flicker back to me every now and then, as if making sure I’m still there, still breathing, still alive. I want to reach for him, to close the space between us, but I can’t. I’m stuck.

On one side, Aslanov and his men stand firm, armed, and unyielding, their dark silhouettes cutting imposing figures against the glow of the truck’s headlights. On the other, the tactical forces—FBI, SWAT, and local police—move in coordinated formation, their weapons raised and trained on every single figure in the standoff.

And in the very center of it all is me.

I stand frozen, trembling, my breath hitching as countlesslaser sights dance across my chest. The weight of the crosshairs feels like iron shackles, pinning me in place. My pulse thrums in my ears, drowning out the distant shouts and barked commands.

“Hands where we can see them!” a commanding voice orders through a loudspeaker, sharp and unrelenting.

Aslanov and his men, their faces shadowed but their weapons gleaming under the harsh lights of the trucks. The disciplined rows of tactical forces across from them are a stark contrast, their precision and numbers overwhelming. Red laser dots crisscross the space, most converging on me—the fragile, trembling thread holding these opposing forces together.

I try to move, to step back, to doanything, but my legs feel like lead. My hands, raised instinctively, shake as I meet the cold, calculating eyes of the agents in front of me.

“Isabella Marie Brown!” a voice thunders from the loudspeaker, authoritative and piercing. “Step away from them! Place your hands on your head and get on your knees! You are under arrest for aiding and abetting a criminal fugitive!”

The clearing seems to shrink around me, the sharp bark of the agent’s voice reverberating in my skull. My ears ring as if every sound has been amplified, each shouted order, every shuffle of boots, every faint click of a safety being removed.

“Isabella!” the loudspeaker commands again, sharper this time, slicing through the tense air. “Step away from them! Place your hands on your head and get on your knees!”

The words make my chest tighten. I can’t move. My arms are frozen halfway, trembling uncontrollably as if my body refuses to obey even the simplest command.

“Aslanov…” I mumble when turning to find him in the chaos, my voice barely audible. My throat feels tight, and my breath is shallow and ragged. I glance toward him, desperate for guidance, but his expression is unreadable—a mask of calm thatonly makes the storm in my chest rage harder.

“Do it,” he says, his voice low, harsh, and unyielding. “Do as they say.”

My stomach twists at his cold tone, but his gaze doesn’t soften. His sharp, calculating eyes burn into mine as if willing me to comply. There’s no comfort in his expression, no reassurance—only steel and command.

Tears blur my vision as I nod jerkily, the movement barely perceptible. My knees feel like jelly, threatening to buckle beneath me as I force my shaking hands upward. Slowly, I lace my fingers behind my head, the humiliating vulnerability making my cheeks burn.

“Good,” the loudspeaker blares. “Now, get on your knees!”

The weight of the moment crashes down on me, suffocating. My breath hitches as I drop to the cold, hard ground, the sharp gravel biting into my skin through my jeans. I squeeze my eyes shut, hot tears slipping down my cheeks, the salty trails stinging against the icy night air.

A flurry of motion follows, fast and purposeful. I hear the pounding of boots against the earth, and then two figures loom over me, clad in black tactical gear with visors obscuring their faces. Their presence is overwhelming, a wall of authority and precision.

“Don’t move!” one of them barks, his voice sharp and guttural.

Rough, gloved hands grab my arms, jerking them back with an efficiency that leaves no room for resistance. The cold bite of metal encircles my wrists as handcuffs snap into place, the unforgiving steel digging into my skin. A sob bubbles in my chest, but I choke it down, biting hard on my lip to stifle the sound.

“Get her up,” one of the SWAT men says, his voice distant through the haze of my panic.

They haul me to my feet with little care for my shaking frame.My legs nearly give out, but their firm grip keeps me upright. One of them places a hand on my shoulder, holding me in place, while the other secures a firm grip on my arm, steering me away from the standoff.

Aslanov

The clearing is a battlefield of silence, the tension so thick it chokes the air. Rain begins to fall, a slow, deliberate drizzle that dampens the earth and slicks the barrels of countless guns. On one side, my men—loyal and unyielding, waiting for my command to unleash chaos. On the other, the tactical forces—a sea of black uniforms, their weapons steady, lasers painting jagged streaks through the haze.

And then, there’s her.

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