Vassily didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at the man. He simply watched as Charity approached, arms wide to receive her. Vassily murmured something in Russian, which she didn’t understand, but she saw two of the men in the room open their eyes wide in surprise.

The dark man made a sound of disgust, swivelling his head to follow her.

“Katya,” Vassily murmured. Her skin broke out in goose bumps. He was all worked up, eyes shiny, red spots on his cheeks, hands trembling. The cane swayed with his excitement.

The dark man slapped his hand down on the desk in frustration, and she jumped. He was watching her with such hatred she was frightened he’d attack her as she walked by him. If she could, she’d have skirted him, but she couldn’t. He was right in her path

Charity actually heard his teeth grind as she drew even with his chair.

A sudden keening whine started, so loud it hurt her ears, a huge whistling noise that seemed to rise up out of the ground. Everyone froze, except the dark man, the terrorist.

“Spy!” he screamed, jumping up, pulling out a gun. “She’s a spy! She dies!”

“Katya!” Vassily shouted, throwing himself at her. There was the sound of a shot, and she slammed against the wall, her back erupting in pain. Another shot and then all sounds were drowned in the huge explosion that knocked her off her feet and blinded and deafened her.

Christ.

Nick watched, sweating, as Charity entered Worontzoff’s study. This wasn’t in the program. She was supposed to stay far away from everyone except Worontzoff and plead a blinding headache as soon as possible.

Walking into a room with Worontzoff, al-Banna, his bodyguard, and a man who’d smuggled in radioactive material wasn’t what they’d bargained for.

His eyes were glued to the screen, jaws clenched so tightly his temples hurt. Charity was completely alone in a room full of criminals and terrorists. Not just Charity. Charity and his child.

Nick could barely breathe as she entered the room.

Worontzoff, the fuckhead, looked at her as if she had become his personal possession. Al-Banna was coldly furious.

He saw her realize what the open suitcase held and watched her swallow heavily. Charity was no fool, thank God. She knew the danger she was in. He trusted her to remain alert.

“Prepare for dynamic entry,” he said quietly into his mike. Clicks sounded in response. Nick knew the men were moving, though he couldn’t see them and he couldn’t hear them.

He slanted a hard glance at Di Stefano, ready to take him down if he objected. But Di Stefano was readying his breaching weapon, ready to blow the French windows open if necessary.

It was going to be a fucking miracle if she got out of there alive. Nick started pulling material out of his rucksack. Flashbangs, extra magazines.

They were taking everyone down, no question. That canister was not leaving the building, unless it was in the hands of Homeland Security biohazard experts. Only the takedown had to happen after Charity left. Just the thought of her caught in a crossfire made him nearly insane with fear.

This was a clusterfuck just waiting to happen.

Sweating heavily, he stared at the screen, willing everyone on the screen to simply tell her to go away. She’d go into another room, wait, plead a headache, and would be driven home. Once he’d ascertained she was home safely, then they’d go in.

Not going to happen.

Nick’s blood ran cold at Worontzoff’s expression. He was getting off on Charity understanding what was going on, totally gone in some alternate universe with his dead love, Katya, dead all those years ago and now come back to life.

“Come, dushka,” he said, and held out his arms.

Nick could practically feel Charity’s hesitation and fear. Don’t do it. He sent the thought to her, though he understood she had to. Right now, her life rested on a knife’s edge. It depended on keeping Worontzoff’s illusion that she was Katya alive.

She moved forward slowly toward him. Nick had to fight tunnel vision, that anomaly of battle where you could only see what was right in front of you. It was dangerous, in battle and now. He had to be aware of everything, all senses fired for signs of imminent danger. He deliberately spread his senses wider and caught al-Banna’s expression.

Every hair on his body stood on end. Al-Banna watched Charity with cold hatred. He would look for an excuse to bring her down. She was an extraneous presence, one unplanned for. A danger to him.

Nick gripped the stock of his gun more tightly.

Charity passed al-Banna and suddenly a piercing whistle sounded incredibly loud in his headset, so loud he could also hear it through the walls of the mansion.

Busted! A countersurveillance device! Al-Banna had hidden a countersurveillance device on his person and knew that Charity was wired.

A gunshot sounded. Two.

“Go, go, go!” Nick shouted into the headset, moving fast. The preternatural calm of battle took over now, time stretched, and he was able to calculate every move.

Di Stefano’s breaching weapon blew open the doors and he lobbed in an M84 flashbang. He and Di Stefano flattened themselves against the wall. He signaled with his hands to Di Stefano. Me left, you right.

Di Stefano nodded.

A blinding and deafening blast exploded in the room: 8 million candela, 180 decibels. Guaranteed to stun anyone within a twenty-foot radius. Everyone in the room would be blinded for at least five seconds until the photosensitive cells in the retina could return to normal, and the fluid in the semicircular canals of the ear would be so disturbed, it would be as if everyone in the room had received a roundhouse punch.

He was protected from the worst of the blast by the mansion’s wall, but he’d trained over and over again to withstand the shock. A second after the flashbang had gone off, he was in through the door, tracking left, knowing Di Stefano was tracking right. Between them, they covered almost 180 degrees.

He moved fast, disarming the two stunned men, slapping PlastiCuffs on them. Al-Banna was down, blood pooling under his back, Di Stefano putting a pack over his chest wound.

Nick scanned the room, then scanned again. Where was Charity? Where the fuck was she?

He heard a soft cry, whirled, and his heart stopped. Simply stopped.

Charity was lying on her back against the wall behind the desk as if a giant fist had carelessly punched her there. Half of her was covered by Worontzoff, and all of her was covered with blood.

Someone was crying, a sound of raw animal pain that dug deep into the bone, that hurt the heart. Charity was aware of it, but only dimly. Her head swam and every inch of her hurt. Where was she? She looked around without moving her head, though she still had huge spots in front of her eyes from the massive explosion that had gone off in the room.

Other men began shouting, men dressed in black with black helmets, looking like insectoid aliens, holding huge guns. They came into the room in a controlled rush. “Clear!” one shouted and the echoes came from inside the room and out.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

It was hard to breathe. Something was wrong with her chest, she couldn’t expand her lungs. She looked down at herself and saw Vassily, still and unmoving, on top of her. One of the men in the room, the one who looked like a scientist, was draped over Vassily, screaming like a wounded animal. Raging in a foreign language. Russian?

She couldn’t breathe with two men weighing down her chest. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear.

It made no sense. None of it made sense. She couldn’t gather her thoughts, they kept scattering. Her ears rang and spots moved in front of her eyes.

She moved her hand slightly and felt something wet and viscous on the floor. With enormous effort, she lifted her hand and brought it close to her face.