Page 66 of Rafi

Igor leads me past a check-in desk where a man and lady barely glance my way, through an opulent entrance hall and up a flight of carpeted stairs into what can only be described as a guest suite. It’s luxurious—too luxurious for a prisoner.

Igor pauses at the door, his expression unreadable. “Stay here,” he says. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t try anything, Tayana. Consequences,” he reminds me.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m left alone. Or so I think.

I turn, scanning the room, and freeze when I see her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, looking as though she’s been waiting for me, is a woman.

Her eyes meet mine, and the air seems to shift, heavy with the weight of a thousand questions.

She rises to her feet.

“Maxine?” My voice is barely a whisper, disbelief coloring every syllable. I’ve seen enough photos to know what she looks like. And the resemblance to Brando’s wife Mia is uncanny.

We stand there for a moment, neither of us moving, until finally, I take a hesitant step forward.

Her hair is a mess of blond locks, and I imagine that her flat blue eyes were once soulful, dancing with life and laughter. Her clothes are simple, a little worn, and they hang off her. Loose blue jeans that look like they’re a couple of sizes too big, and a plain, billowy white shirt that’s buttoned to her neck. She’s wearing Skechers which have seen better days. Not the sort of clothes I imagine she would have chosen for herself in her past life, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers when you find yourself sold into a human smuggling ring.

“Omg…I can’t believe you’re actually here. It’s you.” My voice is trembling.

Maxine’s expression is a mix of relief and guilt, and she doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes a deep breath, as though preparing herself for something monumental.

“Do I know you?” she asks finally.

38

RAFI

The chaos explodes in a heartbeat, my body surging with adrenaline, sharpening my senses until every movement feels both lightning-fast and achingly slow. Scar and Mason move like predators, disarming their targets with brutal precision. Across the room, Jacklyn springs into action, snatching Daniel’s gun with a sharp twist of her wrist. Before I can even process, she hurls it toward me, the metal flashing in the dim light.

Her other hand is already armed with a knife. With a flick of her arm, the blade slices through the air and buries itself in the neck of a guard stumbling into the room. The impact sends him crashing backward, colliding with two more guards behind him, their balance teetering as the force of his fall staggers them.

I don’t hesitate; a guard surges toward me, his eyes wild and his steps reckless. My finger squeezes the trigger, and the shot echoes, a clean hit straight to the heart. He drops instantly, lifeless.

Another guard, the one Mason had knocked out, is already rising, his movements sluggish but determined. There’s no time for second chances. I turn and fire, the bullet finding its mark inhis forehead with brutal finality. Blood splatters across the wall behind him as his body crumples.

Before I can breathe, I spot a guard stirring on the floor, his hand groping for a weapon. I lunge forward, yanking the knife from the sheath strapped to the downed guard at my feet. With a hard thrust, I drive the blade deep into his chest, feeling the resistance of muscle and bone before it gives way. His eyes widen, a brief spark of panic, and then he goes still.

Scar and Mason are relentless, their movements precise as they engage two more guards who’ve just stormed in. The room is a maelstrom of violence, the air thick with the copper tang of blood and the sharp crack of gunfire. My pulse thunders in my ears, but I don’t dare falter. There’s no room for hesitation here; I have to clear the way and go after Tayana.

The room is suffocating, the air thick with tension and the acrid stench of gunpowder as I rise to my feet. Every sound—the rasp of Lucky's labored breathing, the soft murmur of Jacklyn’s reassurances, the distant echoes of chaos outside—grates against my nerves. My hands, still streaked with blood that isn’t entirely mine, grip the armrests of the chair so tightly I can feel the wood strain beneath my fingers. The room feels like a cage, trapping us with our failures.

Tayana is gone. Igor has her. The words hammer at my skull, relentless and cruel.

Across the room, Lucky shifts slightly, his face contorting in pain. “Stay still,” Scar warns, pressing harder on the makeshift bandage at Lucky’s side. Blood seeps through his fingers, dark and unrelenting. Jacklyn’s whispered words to Lucky are a fragile tether, one he seems barely able to grasp as he falls in and out of consciousness.

The thought of losing him tightens like a noose around my chest. I can’t lose him. Not Lucky. Not Tayana. Not both. Noteither. The edges of my vision blur, and for a moment, it feels like the walls are closing in.

The door crashes open, shattering the suffocating stillness, and I snap my head up. Kanyan and Brando charge in, their faces carved from stone, eyes scanning the room like predators sizing up a battlefield.

“Jesus,” Kanyan breathes, his voice a mix of relief and anger as his eyes lock on us. “You’re alive.” His relief is short-lived, his gaze dropping to Lucky’s crumpled form. The blood on the floor, the grim pallor of Lucky’s skin—it tells a story no one wants to hear.

“Lucky, fuck!” Kanyan’s voice is a whip crack in the room. He crosses to Lucky in two strides, dropping to his knees beside him. “What the hell happened?”

Lucky’s lips twitch, a ghost of his usual grin. “Took...a bullet,” he rasps, his voice barely audible. “Still...better-looking than you.”

The weak attempt at humor only deepens Kanyan’s scowl. “You look like death warmed over,” he growls, his voice tight with anger that’s rooted in fear. “We should’ve been here faster.”

“You weren’t,” Scar interjects sharply, his hands still pressed to Lucky’s side. “So unless you’ve got a time machine, let’s focus on keeping him alive.”

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