Page 78 of Stricken

I round the vehicle and lunge for the Audi's passenger door to open it. Then I drop to my knees in front of the seat, my hand sliding under.

Please, please, let it be here.

My fingers scrabble beneath the seat for a few moments while my heart thunders against my ribs. For a breathless second, I feel nothing but gritty upholstery.

Then, my hand closes around a small, plastic rectangle. Relief crashes over me in a dizzying wave as I yank out the burner phone, cradling it like the fucking Holy Grail. "Thank fuck," I breathe, jabbing at the power button with a trembling thumb. The screen flickers to life, and I could almost weep.

But there's no time for that. No time for anything but action. I dial Ivan, hoping he's still alive.

"Vlad?" he responds.

"Are you with Seven?"

"Yes. We're on the way to the safehouse. Everything okay?"

No, it's not fucking okay. Nico is on his fucking deathbed after someone tried to barbeque us. But I can't tell this to Ivan. He'll panic, will try to turn around. That goddamn loyal dog. Will try to tell me he told me so. And I need for the drugs to be stashed away before they are found and stolen from us again. "About to leave," I blurt out and end the call.

Next I punch in Ricky's number, the tips of my fingers stinging from the cuts. I don't know if he'll pick up. Maybe he was on it with Seven and the rest of the Hellhounds crew. Which would make no sense since Ivan is fine.

The line connects, and I don't wait for a greeting. "Ricky, it's me. The shit's hit the fan here at the warehouse."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Nico and I were the only ones left inside when someone locked us in and tried to set us on fire."

"Is this a fucking joke, boss?"

"No, it's not a joke."

There's a tense pause. "Are you saying my boys did it?" Ricky asks, his voice suddenly low and menacing.

"I don't know who did it, but they knew we were inside and probably knew we'd be coming."

"I'm disappointed you'd even consider this," Ricky says.

"I don't know what to think right now," I hiss into the phone angrily, my words are all minced together because I'm trying to speed through them to get back to Nico. "Nico's not well. Smoke inhalation. I need you to call Doc, now. I'm on my way back."

Shoving the phone into my pocket, I whirl around, eyes raking over the chaotic landscape. Salvatore's warehouse blazes against the night sky, flames licking hungrily at the stars. Black smoke billows, thick and acrid, stinging my nostrils even from here.

It's all commercial structures, someone else will see the fire and call in the fire department. I don't have time for it and I don't care if one of Morelli properties is gone.

I sprint through the maze of destruction, vaulting over a hunk of concrete. My heart pounds in time with my feet, a desperate rhythm urging me forward. Faster. Faster. Every second counts. Every heartbeat could be Nico's last.

A lot filled with cars emerges ahead and I skid to a halt at the edge, chest heaving, eyes wild. A sea of vehicles stretches before me—sedans, trucks, SUVs. So close, yet so far. I scan the rows with frantic intensity, searching for the right target.

There. My gaze locks onto a green Corolla, tucked away in the far corner. Nondescript. Forgettable. Perfect. I'm moving before I even realize it. Like a man possessed.

No time for finesse. No time for caution. With a grunt, I slam my bare knuckles into the driver's side window. Once. Twice. The glass shatters, a crystalline explosion that echoes through the lot.

Reaching through the jagged opening, I unlock the door and slide into the driver's seat. Shards of glass bite into my skin, but I barely feel the sting. My focus narrows to a single point: the wires beneath the steering column.

My fingers work with practiced precision, stripping the wires with a flick of my wrist. Copper meets copper, sparks fly, and the engine roars to life. A humorless chuckle escapes my lips. If only Yuri could see me now, his golden boy resorting to grand theft auto.

Thanks, Father, for teaching me all these tricks.

I shift the car into gear and peel out of the lot, tires screeching against the uneven pavement, then squeal as I take a sharp turn toward the burning warehouse, the force slamming me against the door. I barely feel it. All I can feel is the thrashing of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears.

I'm getting closer. Hold on, Nico. Just hold on. Finally, the spot where I left him comes into view and I bring the car to a screeching halt. The pungent scent of burning rubber is mixing with the scent of a burning building, filling my nostrils, making it hard to breathe.

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