Page 280 of Sexting His Assistant

It misses him by an inch.

Misha drops behind the chair, breathing hard, one hand still trapped, the other gripping the stolen gun like it is the only thing keeping him alive.

Kirill shouts, “Get him!”

Two men rush Misha.

I pull against my ropes until they cut into my wrists. “No!”

Misha fires again.

One man goes down. The other dives behind a stack of crates.

Oleg swings his gun toward me.

“Enough,” Oleg snaps. “Or I shoot her first.”

Misha freezes.

Even bleeding and half-conscious, he freezes for me.

My throat closes. “Don’t,” I say. “Don’t listen to him.”

Misha’s chest rises and falls too quickly. Blood runs down the side of his face, over his jaw, onto his shirt.

Oleg steps closer, gun still aimed at me. “Drop it.”

Misha does not.

Kirill raises his own gun toward Misha. “Drop the fucking gun.”

Misha’s eyes stay on me.

I shake my head. “No.”

Meredith grabs my hair from behind and yanks my head back.

Pain flashes through my skull. I gasp.

“Tell him,” Meredith says.

I breathe through the pain. “Go to hell.”

Her grip tightens. Then something hits the far side of the warehouse.

A low, heavy thud.

Everyone stops.

Oleg turns his head toward the sound. “What’s that?” he says.

No one answers. Another sound follows. Metal scraping. Then a crash.

Closer this time.

Kirill looks toward the loading dock. “What the fuck is going on?”

The men by the crates raise their guns.