Page 38 of Dark Embers

Please, please let them think it's just a panel in the wall.

I press Elena tighter to my chest, my arm a shield across her little body. She’s asleep for now, cheeks flushed pink fromthe heat and the tiny tooth trying to push through her gum. The baby earmuffs I slipped over her head are still in place. Sam swore nothing would get through them. But I’m not sure I believe that anymore. I’m not sure I believe anything right now.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I rock back slightly and breathe through the panic clawing its way up my throat. I hate this space. It’s small, dark, and barely bigger than a broom closet. Even with the ventilation fans Sam installed, the air feels too thin. Like I'm inhaling dread.

I reach for the tiny rocking chair Sam wedged in here for moments just like this, gently lowering Elena into it and pulling the blanket over her before pulling it close to me. My knees are hugged to my chest as I try not to sob. Try not to lose it. I can’t fall apart. Not when she’s here. Not when my baby girl’s life is on the line.

A muffled voice outside the wall makes my breath hitch. It’s deep. Russian. Two of them. Fuck. I knew it. This has to be Oleksi. Or his men. He warned me. I pushed him. And now they’re here—for the phone. For the evidence I threatened him with earlier. God, I was so sure I could handle this. So sure he wouldn’t retaliate. But of course he would. I don’t know why I believed he wouldn’t.

Please, Sam. Please. By some miracle, be back in Vegas. Hear that alert go off. You swore it would go straight to your phone if anyone tried to get in.

I glance down at Elena, still breathing softly in her chair, and whisper, “Please don’t wake up, baby. Please. Mommy can’t protect you if you cry.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. My knuckles are white around the chair’s frame. I’ve never felt so powerless. Never feltso fucking stupid or scared in all my life—what if I can’t protect her?

I should’ve known better than to go up against Oleksi Mirochin.

Oleksi

The door is open.

Not kicked in. Not jimmied. Just… slightly ajar.

My blood runs cold.

“Stay quiet,” I growl to Ivan, Lev, and Syd, who are flanking me, guns drawn. Syd’s face is pale, but her eyes are burning—I had told her about Clyde on the way over here. He’s hanging by a thread. And I feel sorry if these are the Russian twins that Sam said shot Clyde because she will make them pay.

We step inside like shadows. The tension is thick enough to choke on. From down the hall, I hear Russian—two voices. Male. Sharp and low, arguing about where “it” is.

They’re still here.

I nod to Ivan and Lev, and we move as one. Years of training and muscle memory kick in. It’s almost beautiful how fast it goes down. Lev flanks the hallway; Ivan goes in hard. Syd hangs back to cover the exit.

It’s over in less than a minute. Two tall, hulking Russian men—the twins—are pinned and bleeding on the hardwood floor. They won’t give their names. Of course not.

“Secure them,” I bark. “Take them to Gunner. He'll get the information we need from them.”

“And I’ll help him.” Syd’s voice is filled with malice, her eyes blazing as she eyes the twins. “It’s going to be so good to watch especially since Gunner’s gone without a good interrogation for months now.”

“You don’t scare us,” the twin with a scar on his cheeks tells us.

“We might not,” Syd jumps in before anyone else can. “But wait until you meet Gunner. His father was Oleg Zaitsev, the notorious torturer.”

I see the twin brows shoot up. Of course Russian’s would know who he was. He was one of the nightmare stories parents used as cautionary tales to scare their kids into submission

Lev and Syd herd the Russian twins from the apartment.

“What about you?” Ivan asks, his cheeks still flushed from the thrill of the fight.

“I need to find Sabrina and her baby.”

Before he can reply, my boots thunder through the apartment. I hit the one bedroom first. The bed’s unmade. The baby monitor is glowing. Her scent is in the air—sweet, like jasmine and warmth. She was here. Recently.

I scan the room, then notice the window wide open. The fire escape ladder is dangling outside it. My stomach knots.

“Syd!” I yell. “Wait.” I rush out the door stopping her before they get to the stairs and approach the men asking them in Russian. “Where is she?”

“Who?” The twin without the scar asks.

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