Page 76 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride
Somewhere in that maze, Lily is being hidden from me. She was taken, and I don’t care what it takes. I will get her back.
Our entrance sparks a chain reaction of shouting followed by gunfire on our lives.
I exchange a quick glance with Roman next to me, who nods and pushes forward with his pistol up. At the same time, we move quickly, cutting between the endless towers of metal containers that stretch far too high to give us a clear view of anything.
Visibility is a joke and certainly acts as a cover for both sides, but one side is more familiar with the layout. The blind corners and cross sections complicate things, and the containers offer far too many places to disappear behind.
But I push forward anyway, well aware of what’s at stake.
As the men appear, I pick them off with quick, decisive shots, and when they appear in groups, Roman covers for me.
None of us expected this kind of terrain. I had the feeling that Maxim was prepared with something bold, but this caught me off guard more than I anticipated.
While we move in, they just keep coming. Like rats pouring out from their hiding places, they run and fire blind, speaking in a garbled mesh of English, Russian, and Italian. The numbers are staggering, but not enough to put us at a disadvantage.
Roman and I bark orders at the units behind us, gunning down two more as they run up on Roman’s right side.
“You take the left, I’ll take the right,” I say as we reach another intersection of containers, this one being wider.
With his nod of confirmation, Roman peels the opposite way with a group following him, and I do the same on the left side.
If we can somehow surround them and box Maxim’s forces in, then at least we’ll stand to lose less of our own.
I hurry ahead, keeping my pistol up while I scan every turn and corner. The more I shoot and the more men I come across, the nagging thought only persists.
Maxim didn’t do this alone. He couldn’t have.
It leaves a sour taste in my mouth, but given how there seems to be wave after wave of them, I know these numbers exceed what he has ever been capable of reaching.
Filing it away, I urge myself to focus. It doesn’t matter how many men he sends in our direction; we will cut through them.
Darting through the rows, I catch a group heading straight for me, and taking quick action, I fire a few rounds in their direction before taking another turn, well aware that the guards behind me will be on them in seconds.
Our forces are handling themselves well, coming in like an inevitable wave, but the others just keep coming. They aren’t all Nikolaevs…I know that much.
Every second I spend in the yard feels more and more like a trap, but I refuse to let this place take me. I won’t let it bury me while knowing Lily is here somewhere.
Even thinking about her makes my chest tighten, and her face appears in my head. Her softness, her anger, her stubbornness…that determination she wears so easily, especially when it comes to going after what she wants.
I feel the ghost of her hand in mine, I hear her gentle tones, and I can’t shake the taste of her.
I see the way she kissed me the other night with desperation, telling of how she wanted to convince herself it was okay to want me. And now, she’s in this nightmare because I was distracted. Because I let her out of my sight when I shouldn’t have.
All because of me. Because of this life.
Footsteps move all around me, and my stomach ties into knots at not knowing if hers are tangled in the mix, or if she’s being held up somewhere.
The chaos is endless—more men, more gunfire, more casualties on both sides. The stench of blood and steel lingers heavy enough to choke on.
Turning another corner, my breath catches in my chest at the sudden impact of another body against mine, making me tense as my instincts kick in, prepared to fight back with any means necessary.
But I freeze. The recognition snaps into place at the shorter figure, taking a half step back out of fear.
Her eyes meet mine, and we both hesitate. Then we soften.
“Lily,” I utter, reaching for her and pulling her tightly against my chest. “Thank Christ.”
She forces out a shaky breath and presses against me with a newfound desperation, face buried in my chest. “Mikhail…”
