The broader man immediately circles left while the third advances from the right, their movements coordinated and practiced. They’ve done this before—worked as a unit to corner prey. My pulse thunders in my ears, so loud I can barely hear my own ragged breathing.
“You’ll regret that,” the broad-shouldered one says, his voice carrying a thick accent that turns the words harsh and guttural. Russian.
Kozlov’s men. Just as Ace and Cyrus feared. Just as they warned me about.
I feint right, selling the movement with my shoulders and eyes, then dive left toward where my phone landed, trying to reach the shattered device. A heavy boot stomps down with brutal force, crushing it beneath steel-toed treads. The screen splinters with a sickening crack. Terror claws up my throat, sharp and suffocating, as I roll away across the hardwood. My hands find purchase, and I scramble to my feet, putting the barre between us.
The man with the broken nose has recovered enough to rejoin, though his movements are less steady now. Blood streams down his chin and neck, soaking into his dark shirt collar as he grins at me with teeth stained red.
“She fights well,” he says to his companions, the words slurred but understandable. His gaze rakes over me with predatory appreciation that makes my skin crawl. “Maybe we have fun before delivery,da?”
These men don’t just intend to take me—they intend to break me first. I back toward the wall of mirrors, my reflection multiplying my fear across the glass. My mind races through escape scenarios with desperate speed. The front door is locked, the back entrance is blocked, the windows are too high, andthree trained men are against one dancer. The math doesn’t work. The math has never worked.
But I won’t go down without fighting.
I grab a nearby chair, one of the folding ones I keep for students during theory lessons, and swing it in a wide, desperate arc to create space. The metal leg catches one man across the jaw with a solid crack. He grunts, stumbling sideways. But the scarred one has already anticipated my move, ducking below the chair’s trajectory. He drives forward low and fast, tackling me at the knees with the force of a linebacker.
My legs buckle. The chair flies from my grip, clattering uselessly across the floor as I go down hard.
My head slams against the hardwood floor. Stars explode across my vision as I thrash beneath his weight, clawing, kicking, fighting with desperate strength.
Something sharp pricks my neck.
“No!”
Cold spreads from the injection site, a numbing wave that races through my veins like ice water. My limbs grow heavy, movements slowing despite my mind’s frantic commands.
Helplessness washes over me as my body betrays me. The ceiling spins above as darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision.
I should have told Ace where I was going. Should have listened when they warned me about Kozlov.
My last coherent thought forms as consciousness slips away.
Ace. Cyrus. I’m sorry.
42
ACE
The signal vanishes at 2:47 PM.
One second, Keira’s GPS locator is pulsing steadily on my phone—the next, nothing. A black void where her presence should be.
My blood turns to ice. “Cyrus!”
He’s already moving, halfway to the door before I can pocket my phone. “Her tracker went dark.”
“Studio,” I say, grabbing my Glock from the hidden compartment in the bookshelf. I don’t need to say more. Cyrus checks his own weapon while I unlock the gun cabinet for tactical vests.
By 2:50, we’re in the elevator. Cyrus punches the garage button five times in rapid succession, his knuckles white. The calm we’ve maintained through hundreds of operations has shattered. This isn’t a contract. This is Keira.
“Felix, track all movement around the dance studio for the last hour,” I command in my earpiece. “I want street cams, traffic lights, everything.”
The Audi’s engine roars as I push it past ninety in a forty. My hands never tremble—they’re trembling now.
“Her last text was about covering Marco’s class,” Cyrus says. “But Marco cancelled it to visit his mother in Seattle.”
“It’s a setup.” My voice sounds distant, detached from the storm raging inside me.