ON A PRAYER, Vlad pulled the trigger, forcing Inna’s kidnappers to duck for cover. His reflexes were slower than usual thanks to the zap he’d received from the stun gun, but his shots robbed the men of their opportunity to secure the door of the truck and take off.
Both men were armed with guns. The prudent action, the strategic action, the action the FBI had trained him to take, would be to stop but not to kill her kidnappers. Disable them. Keep them for questioning. Who were they? What did they want with Inna?
On a normal day, Vlad would have disabled both targets easily.
Today wasn’t a normal day. They’d caught him off guard and taken Inna. This was personal.
Vlad wasn’t in strategy mode. He was mad as hell, and these fuckers were going to pay for what they’d done.
Shooting to kill, he easily picked off the first man, the one with the limp. The second kidnapper dove behind the truck to the driver’s side. No way was he letting the bastard get in and drive away with Inna.
I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me. He recognized the echo of his old man as he pulled the trigger and missed.
Movement at the back of the truck caught his eye. Inna stood, holding the rolled up door over her head.
In the split second that he paused his fire and registered her standing there about to get free, the kidnapper got off a single shot.
The bullet hit Vlad square in the chest and knocked him off his feet. He slammed into the concrete-encased light post behind him.
“No!” Inna screamed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her launch herself from the truck and into the middle of danger.
The full body blow made him feel like he’d been hit with the mother of all hammers. His eyes watered, but he stayed focused on his target.
He wouldn’t fail Inna now.
With effort, he pulled himself upright and shot again. Mine! Again. Mine! He shot twice more in rapid succession—mine, damn it, mine!—until there were no more answering shots.
“You were hit!” Inna cried out. Her hands roamed over his torso as she checked him over. Her eyes, feverish in their intensity, were wide with concern for him.
“I’m wearing a vest.” He craned his head to get a clearer view of the driver’s side of the van and confirm his kill. His latest victim stared up at him, half of his head blown off.
It was over.
Inna followed his gaze, gasped at the grisly sight, and then threw herself against him. She buried her face against his chest and clung to him. Even through his bulletproof vest, he could feel her trembling.
“Hey, you’re okay,” he soothed. He stroked her head, secretly savoring the silkiness of her damp hair and the faint scent of strawberries, the knowledge that she was safe and in his arms.
“You were shot. They could’ve killed you.” She wrapped her arms tighter around his waist and squeezed.
His throat closed. He hadn’t been hugged in years. He suspected Inna, when she was small, might have been the last person to do so.
He reminded himself that this sudden closeness meant nothing. She merely wanted comfort. She’d had a scare. This was a natural response. He represented safety and security. He was, after all, her bodyguard.
She didn’t know why he was really insinuating himself with her father. She wouldn’t be pressed against him like this if she did. Not for me, he reminded himself. Not for me.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said gruffly. “Danger’s part of the job. You’re what matters.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said. “You matter to me. You’ve always mattered.” She looked up at him then, and what he saw undid him.
He had no right to her. No right at all. But he wanted—no, needed—her more than air.
How could he ever let her go? He knew in that moment that he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. No matter the cost. No matter what rules he had to break. Mine. Only mine.
She pulled away abruptly. “Nick,” she said.
He hated the sound of another man’s name on her lips.
“We have to help Nick.”