Cold. Metallic. Carrying the faint, iron-tinged scent of the lake as I crossed the private airstrip in borrowed slippers that were far too thin for the hour.
2:00 a.m.
The world felt suspended—like time itself had paused to watch what choice I’d make. No crickets. No distant engines from the road. Just the low, predatory hum of the jet’s idling engines and the soft crunch of gravel beneath my feet.
The man guiding me wore a black ski mask, his face erased as thoroughly as my past had been more than once.
He moved with brisk efficiency, every step precise, purposeful. An extractor. A professional. Someone who’d walked dozens—maybe hundreds—of people into disappearances.
I didn’t ask his name.
I didn’t care to know it.
Fear coiled tight in my stomach, sharp and restless. I was going home—to my parents. To the people who should have represented safety, love, protection.
Instead, every step toward the glowing stairs of the jet felt like walking willingly into a cage I’d spent my entire life trying to claw my way out of.
The jet loomed ahead of me, sleek and white under floodlights, door open like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
I reached the foot of the stairs.
My hand lifted, fingers brushing the cold metal railing—
Headlights exploded in the darkness.
A black SUV tore onto the tarmac, engine roaring, tires shrieking as it skidded sideways to a violent halt inches from my legs. The sudden force sent me stumbling backward, my heart slamming so hard I tasted blood.
The masked man reacted instantly, yanking a pistol from his waistband. Two armed figures appeared at the jet’s doorway, rifles snapping up, red dots trembling over the SUV’s windshield.
The air went razor-thin.
Then the driver’s door opened.
Dmitri Volkov stepped out.
The floodlights caught him fully—black coat hanging open, collar turned up against the wind, dark hair tousled like he’d driven too fast to care. His presence hit like a physical force. Lethal. Controlled. Radiating something dangerous and unreadable.
Handsome didn’t come close to covering it.
He looked like vengeance given a human shape.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
His voice cut through the night—low, furious, vibrating with restrained violence. Not shouted. He didn’t need to raise it.
The guns stayed raised. Fingers hovered dangerously close to triggers. One wrong breath and the airstrip would erupt.
“To my parents,” I said, forcing my voice not to shake. “I wasn’t born a slave, Dmitri. I won’t stay one.” I swallowed. “Please... let me go.”
For a moment, he just stared at me.
Then his mouth curved—not into a smile, but something sharper. Colder. Almost amused.
He flicked his gaze toward the armed men with nothing more than a casual wave of his hand.
Three muffled shots cracked through the night.
I barely registered the sound before bodies started dropping.