Alena froze. Nikita was directing the shooters toward them.
Danylo swore under his breath and dragged her behind a heavy bronze sculpture shaped like a twisted human torso. Bullets sparked off the metal inches from their heads.
“That traitor sold us out,” Danylo growled, reloading by feel with frightening speed. “My own blood brother.”
“We’re trapped,” Alena said, panic rising.
“There,” Danylo said, pointing upward with the gun. “Vent shaft. Can you climb?”
“I think so.”
“Then go. I’ll cover you.”
“No. I’m not leaving you here.”
He looked at her, stunned. His face was blackened with soot. For one strange second, the war around them seemed to fall away.
“Listen to me. If you stay, you die. If you get out, you can bring help. Use the phone I gave you. Speed dial one. It goes to my cleaner.”
“I’m not leaving,” she said again.
Her eyes darted around the room. Then she saw it: a red fire alarm box on the wall beside a stack of propane tanks for the patio heaters.
“Give me your gun,” she said.
“What?”
“Your gun. Now.”
He hesitated, then handed her the backup pistol from his waistband. “Safety’s off. Try not to shoot yourself.”
She didn’t. And she didn’t aim at the gunmen either. She took a breath, aimed at the nearest propane tank about twenty feet away, and fired.
She missed.
“Lower,” Danylo shouted, firing over her shoulder.
Alena steadied her hands. “Focus,” she muttered to herself. “Like the arcade shooting games Dad used to let me play. Like the red dot.”
She fired again.
This time the bullet punched through the tank. Gas hissed into the room.
“Now hit the heater!” Alena shouted.
Danylo didn’t need to be told twice. He fired once at the igniter of the patio heater beside the leaking tank.
The explosion was enormous.
A fireball roared upward, blowing out the back wall of the gallery and sending a shockwave through the room that knocked everyone flat. The sprinkler system kicked on at once, dumping cold water over fire, smoke, and screaming men.
“Move!” Danylo shouted, grabbing her by the waist. “While they’re blind!”
They ran through the smoke and out through the blasted opening into a dark alley, coughing, soaked, and alive. They didn’t stop until they were three blocks away, crouched in the shadow of a dumpster. Danylo leaned against a brick wall, then slid down to the wet pavement.
He was clutching his side.
“Danya!” Alena dropped to her knees beside him.
He pulled his hand away. His white shirt was soaked dark red.
“They got me on the way out,” he said through clenched teeth.
“No. No, no, no.” Alena pressed both hands to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “You are not dying here. You promised to pay my mother’s bills.”
To her surprise, Danylo laughed—a wet, painful sound. He lifted a blood-slick hand and cupped her face.
“You just blew up an art gallery,” he whispered, sounding almost impressed.
“I improvised,” she said, crying now.
His voice weakened. “Listen to me. Don’t trust Ilya. Don’t trust any of them. Trust only yourself.”
Then his eyes rolled back and his head dropped forward.
“Danya!” Alena shook him. “Stay with me. Stay with me.”
She fumbled in her pocket for the phone he’d given her, her hands slippery with his blood. She hit speed dial one.
“Cleaner,” said a dry male voice.
“He’s been shot,” Alena said, nearly screaming into the phone…
