I'm running before conscious thought catches up. Pure instinct. Pure terror.
Mila sees them. Her face goes white. She freezes at the top of the slide, that same paralyzed fear I've seen in her nightmares, and my heart fucking shatters.
"MILA!" I'm screaming, legs pumping, closing the distance. "SLIDE DOWN. NOW!"
She moves. Slides down fast, stumbles at the bottom.
I catch her, haul her up, and spin around looking for escape routes.
Juno’s engaging the attackers—gunfire erupting, the sharp crack echoing across the playground. One of the men goes down. The mothers scream, grab their kids, and flee.
More men from the van. They're spreading out, trying to flank us.
Patrick. These are Patrick's men. I recognize one from the photo he sent—the one with the scar bisecting his eyebrow, the enforcer who broke Ethan's fingers.
Rage floods through me, hot and sharp.
You're not taking her. I don't care what you do to me; you're not fucking taking this child.
I run. Mila's sobbing against my shoulder, arms locked around my neck, legs around my waist. She's heavy, but adrenaline makes her weightless.
"It's okay, baby, I've got you, I've got you—"
Gunfire behind me. Viktor's down—I see him fall, blood spreading across his chest.
Sam’s shouting into his radio, firing at the men pursuing us.
I cut left, heading for the tree line. If I can reach the woods, lose them in the vegetation—
A man steps out from behind the public bathroom. Blocking my path. Gun raised.
I pivot hard, nearly dropping Mila, and run the other direction.
Another man is there.
Trapped. We're fucking trapped.
Mila's screaming now, face buried in my neck, small body shaking violently. "Don't let them take me, don't let them take me, please—"
"I won't." My voice comes out fierce, feral. "I promise, baby, I won't let them—"
The man behind me is close. I can hear his footsteps, heavy boots on grass.
I spin to face him, putting my body between him and Mila. Backing up toward the playground equipment, looking for anything I can use as a weapon.
"Give us the girl." His accent is thick—Eastern European, maybe Ukrainian. "No one has to get hurt."
"Fuck you." The words tear out of me. "You're not touching her."
He raises his gun, aims at my head. "Last chance."
Mila whimpers against me.
And a savage, beastly instinct takes control of my senses.
Over my dead fucking body.
"You want her?" My voice drops cold, flat, completely empty of fear. "You'll have to go through me."