He stares at me. He’s been my enemy for a long time, but in this moment, I know we’re the same—two people who love Ally, who would do anything to save her life.
He turns to the female officer.
“Help the other men secure the scene inside,” he says.
“Sir,” she says, gazing between us. “Are you sure …”
“Do what I said,” he snarls. She retreats into the house. He takes a key off his utility belt and indicates for me to turn around. He unlocks the cuffs, catching them before they fall to the floor.
Then he hands me another pair of keys. His car keys.
“You better kill Marco Colosimo,” he says. “I’m betting my career on you getting my daughter back, so make it worth it.”
I nod and start toward the car, only to be pulled up short by the chief’s rough hand on my arm. “Wait,” he growls, and yanks off his belt. Next thing I know, he’s tying up my wound and issuing a gruff warning. “You can’t leave that on long, or you’ll lose the leg. But if I don’t tie it off, you’ll be dead before you drive a block. So you better break every speed limit to get to my daughter, Alekseiev.”
Nodding again, I hobble to his car, lightheadedness starting to sink its claws in me in spite of the tourniquet.
* * *
105 on the speedometer, the police siren blaring, and passing dozens of cars. I should have found Marco or Ally by now. Marco owns a black BMW, but it’s unlikely to be the vehicle he’s driving. The only indication I have for where he’s going is his comment about the Mexican cartel.
The Bratva doesn’t fuck around with the Mexican cartel. They’re careless, unnecessarily brutal, and they’re involved in human trafficking. It’s not a moral decision. We’re just not stupid enough to get involved in a product that can testify against us.
However, my father had some deals with them back in the day, so I know they hide in the northern part of the city and there’s only one direct route to it from here.
I pass two more cars as they pull over to let me by. No Marco. No Ally.
If he drove at the speed limit, he’d still be on this road. If he didn’t, I’m going to have to improvise once I’m in the city.
A red sports car. No Marco. No Ally.
The pain is creeping back as my adrenaline is replaced with frustration. My leg, my ribs, my face—a stream of pain that flickers, twists, stabs, and pulsates.
White van. No Marco. No Ally.
Closer to the city, two cars pull out of the way, the siren on top of Peter Harrington’s SUV acting like Moses’ staff, parting the Red Sea.
As I’m preparing to pass them, the passenger door from the second car opens. A thin arm and dark hair whip out. Ally gets halfway out before her body is yanked back into the car.
The car speeds up again, ignoring the siren. I pass the other car. I watch the sedan, waiting to see if Ally can escape again. I stare at the passenger door. He must have restrained her somehow. She wouldn’t give up the fight that easy.
I could ram into the car, but there’s a decent chance it would kill Ally—even higher if she’s not secured in her seat. But if I don’t get the car to stop, he could kill her himself.
The sedan speeds up, hitting at least ninety. Marco is fleeing. He could have recognized me or he just knows he can’t get pulled over by a policeman while he has Ally beside him.
I’m not going to lose him.
I’m not going to lose her.
I let the pain consume me for a split second before I stomp on the gas and jerk the wheel, switching lanes. The sedan tries to outspeed me, but I reach close enough to the driver’s side that I can see Marco’s hand on the steering wheel.
I yank the wheel to the right, slamming into his door. The sedan lifts off the road before crashing down on the roof and rolling off the road.
* * *
Shattered glass surrounds the overturned sedan. I run to the car, stopping on the passenger’s side. Allison is hanging upside down, her seat belt on. Her eyes are wide, but she appears fine. My thoughts race to our baby, but I can’t let the panic overwhelm me. That won’t help them.
I grab her shoulders before unbuckling her seat belt, guiding her so she doesn’t crash into the ceiling, then lifting her out and carrying her a few feet away from the totaled vehicle.
“Are you okay?” I ask, helping her to sit on the ground.
“Fine,” she says, but she’s cradling her arm. I run my hand over it. Blossoms of red are spreading near her elbow and wrist. Broken. She grabs me with her other hand. “You should be in a hospital. Call an ambulance.”
“I don’t have my phone,” I say. I look down the road. No cars now.
A flicker of movement.
I spin around, my leg killing me.
Marco points his gun at me, blood trickling from the crown of his head. “Tell your whore to remove any of your weapons,” he rasps.
“I don’t have anything,” I say. He shifts his body, aiming the gun at Ally. I slowly lift my shirt, showing there’s nothing in my waistband. I lift my pants legs, pain burning up the sides of my body. “Nothing.”
Ally steps in front of me. I try to push her out of the way, but she only steps closer to Marco.
“Please don’t kill him, Marco,” she begs. “I can get Lev sent to prison. He’ll be more humiliated there than if he’s dead. You know my father is the chief of police and I’m close to the district attorney. I’m
