Page 123 of Lethal Alliance

“I just told you he was!” A familiar, strident note sounds through Inger’s tears. “But he won’t be if you don’t act soon.”

And just like that, I know she’s lying.

I press the button again. “What did Ilyan promise you, Inger?” Anger pulses through me, slow and thick. “What could Fedorov possibly have offered you that was worth risking your children’s lives?”

For a moment, there’s no answer.

When Inger’s voice comes through again, there’s no trace of her earlier tears. “My children are lost to me, Darya. Mikhail made sure of that when he gave them away to Roman.” Her tone is sullen and angry. “Ofelia said so herself. She told me to go, so I did. All I want now is Nikolai, and one of the Fabergé eggs. Enough to start a new life.” She puts her mouth close to the intercom. “Give me the code to Roman’s safety deposit box in Switzerland, tell me where Nicky is, and I’ll try to convince Fedorov not to kill you. But if you don’t, I’ll push the button on this bomb myself and take you with me. I swear I will.”

“Nikolai is dead, Inger.” I say it flatly.

“Dead?” To my surprise, it’s Vera’s shrill voice that shrieks down the intercom, talking over Inger’s protests. “My son isdead?”

“No!” Inger gasps. “No, he can’t be. You said he’d be safe—”

The intercom cuts off abruptly.

I stare at the door, utterly confused, trying to imagine what is happening on the other side. Then Anton moves, holding up his hand to get my attention.

“They’re here,” he says tersely. “Mak’s team is here.”

We stand by the door, all four of us frozen in place, just waiting.

Finally, the intercom crackles again.

“Darya.” It’s Papa’s voice, weak but still unmistakable. “Open the door,docha. We’re safe.”

“Papa.” Tears of relief stream down my cheeks, but Anton is still barring the keypad, his face wary. He snaps a question into the phone, and his face slackens in relief. He nods at me.

“Open it.”

I punch in the code, my heart thudding, and the door slowly swings open.

It stops when it hits the inert body of Ilyan Fedorov. His shocked eyes remain open in death, a single bullet hole between them.

My father, Fedorov’s pistol still in his hand, lies slumped barely a foot from Fedorov’s body. His eyes are closed, his face bloody with the beating he’s taken, and he’s clearly lapsed back into unconsciousness. Rosa rushes straight to him.

“Sergei,” she whispers, tears streaming down her face, gripping his hand in hers.

His eyelids flicker, his mouth tugging painfully at one corner. “Rosa.” He tries to sit up. “Darya—”

“Safe,lyubov’ moya.” Leaning over, Rosa presses a kiss to my father’s forehead. “She’s safe.”

“A medical team is on their way,” one of Mak’s men says, smiling at me reassuringly. “They’re coming downstairs now. Your father is strong,” he adds. He gives Papa an admiring glance. “In a wheelchair, after a beating that would have taken out men half his age, and he still managed to get Fedorov’s gun and take him out. He’s one tough old—” He shoots me an apologetic grin. “What I mean to say is that he’ll be fine, Darya.”

I tear my eyes away from my father’s inert body, Rosa bent over it.

I’m too scared to ask the question I need to.

“Where’s Inger?” I ask instead as Anton rolls Fedorov’s body away from the door.

“Dead,” Mak’s man says shortly. “Vera shot her. We took her outside in case her body was wired to blow.”

“And the bomb?”

He shakes his head, his face contemptuous. “There was no bomb.”

I should have known.

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