Fighting dizziness, he picked up the rifle and aimed it at Hardin’s head. “Drop the p-pistol! On the g-ground! Hands b-behind your h-head!”
“You heard him, you m-murdering sack of sh-shit!” Samantha got to her feet, clutching the chisel in her hand once more, fury on her face. “Get d-down!”
Hardin dropped the pistol, looked from Samantha to Thor. “What’s the matter? Is the cold getting to the two of you?”
“T-take the elevator upstairs. G-go, Samantha!”
“N-not without y-you!”
Above them, a door opened, footfalls echoing through the space.
Jones and Segal, at last—and it sounded like they’d brought back-up.
“Drop the weapons now!”
Thor looked up, saw Vasily standing with the other Russians on the stairs, their rifles pointed down at them. “Fuck.”
* * *
Steve gaggedon the blood running down the back of his throat, the pain in his head excruciating, his broken nose throbbing, the wound in his cheek a sharp ache. He ripped the rifle out of Isaksen’s hands. “Like I said. I’ve got the brains.”
He rammed the butt of the rifle into Isaksen’s gut.
The fucker doubled over with a grunt, lost his balance, and sank to the floor.
“St-stop!” Samantha threw the chisel and grabbed a moving blanket off the elevator floor, then covered Isaksen and sat behind him, cradling his head against her shoulder. “Th-Thor, are y-you okay? H-he needs the d-doctor.”
“Fuck him!” Steve pointed the rifle at Sam’s head. “I should shoot you both!”
“L-let her g-go.” Isaksen’s face was unnaturally pale. “She’s done n-nothing to you, Delaney.”
Hardin flinched. “The name is Hardin.”
“Stephen M-Michael Delaney.” Sam glared at him, her cheek red where he’d struck her. “You g-got fired by T-Titan. You w-wanted revenge.”
Blood rushed into Steve’s head, his finger moving to the trigger.
“Wh-what good does it d-do to kill us now?” Isaksen asked. “Everyone kn-knows. You w-won’t get away with it.”
Vasily reached the bottom of the stairs and walked over to Steve, followed by his men. “I see you do not need our help. Put the rifle down. They are no threat.”
Steve supposed Vasily was right. “It took you long enough.”
Steve had returned the Russians’ rifles days ago—a gesture he’d hoped would win him their favor. It had worked. A short time ago, Vasily had promised him a flight out of here, safe harbor in Russia, and ten million US dollars in exchange for the components. He’d hoped for more, but they’d known he was desperate.
“Y-you said you w-were my f-friend.” Sam glared at Vasily, looking like someone had just killed her puppy. “Y-you said you were P-Patty’s friend.”
“Aw, poor baby. Do you feel betrayed?” Steve cupped his gloved hand over his injured cheek. “The fucking bitch stabbed me.”
Vasily leaned in, examined the wound. “That little scratch? That is nothing.”
Snap.
At first, Steve thought Vasily had punched him in the gut, a friendly jab. Then his heart started to slam in his chest, blood rising in his throat, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. He looked down and watched as Vasily withdrew a stiletto switchblade from his solar plexus. “Wh-what…?”
Vasily leaned in close. “You murdered Patty, and you tried to kill Sam. You are lower than shit, a traitor to your friends and your country. You truly believed we would make a deal with you?”
Steve tried to inhale, tried to speak but couldn’t, his knees buckling as the pain hit. He collapsed onto the floor, found himself staring up at the frost-covered ceiling four stories above, his heart flailing in his chest.