Page 67 of Tattooed Heart

I pull myself to my knees, ignoring the throbbing pain in my wrist where Morozov twisted it. Survival means staying calm and thinking clearly. I force myself to stand, my legs trembling beneath me. I press my hand against the wall for support, leaving a smear of blood on the grimy surface.

The bottle of water still lies on the floor. I pick it up, unscrew the cap with shaking hands, and take a small sip. The liquid is lukewarm but eases the burning in my throat. I pour a little into my palm and wipe at the blood on my face, the water turning pink as I try to clean myself.

“What now?” I ask myself aloud, needing to hear any voice, even my own.

The dead man on the floor draws my attention again. I force myself to approach him, to search his pockets despite the revulsion crawling across my skin. My fingers tremble as I pat his jacket, finding nothing in the front pockets. I reach into his back pocket and feel something solid. A phone.

Hope surges through me so violently that I nearly cry out. I pull the device free, only to feel that hope crumble to dust in my hands. The screen is shattered and completely black. I press the power button repeatedly, desperately, but nothing happens. It is as dead as its owner.

I slump back against the wall, clutching the useless phone. The tears I'd been fighting finally spill over, hot trails cutting through the grime on my cheeks. I allow myself exactly thirty secondsto cry, counting each second in my head, before wiping my face with determination.

“Get it together,” I tell myself firmly. “You're not dead yet.”

I tuck the broken phone under the thin mattress. Useless as it is, perhaps I can salvage parts from it and find something else to use as a weapon or tool. The spring served me well, but I need more.

My ribs pulse with each breath, a deep, bruising ache radiating from where Morozov’s boot had landed. I press my fingers gently to my side, wincing at the sharp stab of pain. Likely fractured, but I’m hoping they’re just badly bruised. Every movement lights a fresh fire beneath my skin.

Sweat beads on my forehead despite the chill in the air. My brain feels foggy, thoughts slipping through my fingers like smoke. When was the last time I'd eaten? Twenty-four hours ago? Longer? The baby needs nourishment. I need strength.

I force myself to return to the thin mattress, sitting on its edge. I need to conserve energy to think. The bottle of water is clutched in my hand like a precious gem. I take small, measured sips, savoring each one, knowing it might be all I receive for the day.

The sound of footsteps in the distance makes my entire body rigid. I hide the spring beneath my thigh and assume the position of defeat once more, head bowed. The footsteps grow louder, then pause outside my cell. I fix my gaze on the floor, my heart thundering so loudly I’m certain whoever is there can hear it.

“Clean this mess up,” Morozov's cold voice commands, directed at someone I can’t see. “And bring her food. I want her properly nourished before I rip that bastard baby out of her.”

Rage boils beneath my skin, fierce and hot.

“Yes, sir,” a new voice replies.

Heavy footsteps retreat down the hall. Morozov is leaving but sending others in his place. I remain motionless, counting my heartbeats, trying to slow my breathing.

Minutes later, two men enter the cell. One is young, barely out of his teens, with a face that hasn't yet hardened into the cruelty of his profession. The other is older, battle-scarred, with eyes that have witnessed too much violence to retain humanity.

“Jesus,” the younger one mutters, looking at the body. “Boss did this?”

“Shut up and grab his legs,” the older man snaps. “You,” he addresses me without looking at me directly. “Stay where you are if you don't want the same.”

I don’t respond, don’t move. Just watch through lowered lashes as they heave the dead man between them. Blood drips from the corpse as they carry it out, leaving a trail of crimson droplets across the concrete floor. The scent of blood fills the air, making my stomach turn.

22

DIMITRI

The warehouse appears in the distance, its rusted exterior illuminated by the harsh orange glow of the setting sun. Everything about the building screams forgotten and forsaken, except I know who lurks inside. Andrei Morozov. The man who has haunted my every breath since I stepped out of that prison cell. The man who dared to lay his filthy hands on Sandy.

My knuckles ache as I grip the steering wheel. The familiar burn of rage courses through my veins, but I keep it contained. Cold and controlled. The way I handle all my business. Emotions have no place in what is about to happen.

Viktor drives the lead SUV, and I follow close behind in the second, our convoy of blacked-out vehicles rolling down the abandoned industrial strip like harbingers of death. My gun sits on the seat beside me loaded and ready. My fingers twitch with the need to wrap around its grip. To end this.

The radio crackles with static. “Two minutes,” Viktor's voice comes through, calm and measured.

“Copy,” I respond, checking my rearview mirror. Two more vehicles trail behind mine, filled with my most trusted men. Men who will kill without question. Men who understand the gravity of tonight's mission.

We stop a half mile out from the warehouse. The engines die one by one until silence blankets the air. I step out into the cool night air, which does nothing to quell the fury burning inside me. Aleksandr exits the first SUV, and we gather behind an old shipping container to review the plan one last time.

“He's expecting us to come in through the front,” Aleksandr says, his voice a low growl as he spreads a crude map across the hood of the car. “So, we won't. Ivan and Yuri will take the back entrance with their teams. Dimitri and I go through the north entrance. Viktor cuts the power once we're inside. No mercy. No hesitation. We find Morozov, and we end him.”

A hard nod passes between us. I stay silent. Nothing I say can change what is coming. Only blood and fire will speak for me tonight.

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