Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

M ontana eyed the door, which vibrated under the assault coming from the hall.

"His Russian wasn't perfect," Dahlia said into the phone on Vadisk's palm, "but it was good."

The door shuttered and there was a faint cracking sound.

"Fuck. Time's up." Vadisk pushed Dahlia behind his back.

Vadisk, and then Dahlia too, had been occupied trying to quickly report to the Masters' Admiralty what was going on. Dahlia had already let the Grand Master know as well, but their exchange had been brief.

Montana felt fucking useless since he couldn't follow most of the conversations, so he'd focused on security. First step had been to secure Sinaver, who'd collapsed on the floor when the Spaniard dropped him, and then once Vadisk was back, close and secure the door.

Montana still had control of the building's electronic security, having routed control from the terminal in the safe room to his phone, but the more immediate concern was the men who were pounding on the door.

"Be safe," Vadisk's admiral said. "I'll call Hande and make sure there's a ship waiting for you."

Right now, that ship felt a million miles away and more like a pipe dream. He couldn't lose hope, that wouldn't help any of them, but he was good at doing calculations, and he could figure out exactly how many moves they had to make before finding that ship in the middle of the Black Sea. The worst part was they had to perform every single one of those steps perfectly. They would also need a fuck-ton of luck.

He looked at Dahlia and Vadisk. This couldn't be it. They hadn't had enough time.

Though they weren't in an enclosed space, Montana was starting to feel distinctly trapped.

Sinaver had his hands cuffed behind his back—Montana found cuffs in one of the storage lockers in the safe room—and the pillowcase that had once been Dahlia's fake pregnancy was now his gag. He looked old and fragile as he sat hunched in a chair.

"Do you want me to talk, or are you doing it?" Dahlia asked Vadisk.

"I'll do it. Stay behind me." Vadisk looked at Montana. "You found cuffs?"

"Yep."

"Any body armor?"

Montana shook his head. "No, but I have a dangerous amount of explosives in my pockets."

"Good."

"Once we're in the van, where are we going? Are we going to steal a boat from the marina in Sevastopol?" Dahlia asked, anxiety lacing her words.

"No," Montana said. "There's a private marina not far from here. Our friend Sinaver has a couple of boats there."

Vadisk and Dahlia both looked at him. Montana shrugged. "I rummaged through his phone yesterday and found pictures of his boats."

They continued to stare at him.

"And then I hacked his financials and found the monthly payments for the slips. I know where they're docked."

Vadisk grinned. "Good. Directions?"

"Already on your phones."

"Then we're ready?—"

"I don't think I can drive," Dahlia said softly. "My eyes are…"

The desolate tone in her voice nearly broke Montana's heart. Their wife was strong, brave, and independent, so he could see the guilt she felt, thinking she couldn't help them or that she was holding them back. Nothing could be further from the truth. For Christ's sake, she was the one who got them onto the compound with her steady nerves and flawless Russian. Unfortunately, there wasn't time to reassure her now.

But later…

Later, he'd make sure she understood all the way to the core that she was absolutely, positively everything they needed her to be.

"You were never driving us out of here," Vadisk said. "You wouldn't hit someone with a car."

"What?" Dahlia sounded both confused and mildly offended.

Vadisk grinned, kissed her hard and fast, then grabbed Montana and kissed him too.

Hell, maybe they would survive because Vadisk sure as shit made him feel that way.

"Ready?" Vadisk asked.

Montana hauled Sinaver out of the chair, wrapped his fist in the collar of the man's shirt, and put a gun to his head. "Ready."

"Gun up, Dahlia. Look like you're ready to kill someone."

"I am ready to kill someone," she muttered.

Vadisk pressed his back to the wall beside the door and started yelling. The pounding stopped and a second later, someone shouted back.

Dahlia stood on her toes to whisper in Montana's ear. "Can you turn off the power or make an alarm go off or something?"

He nodded. "Yes. Put your gun to his head."

Dahlia exhaled slowly and raised her arm, the barrel of her gun against Sinaver's ear, though her finger wasn't on the trigger. Montana kept hold of the man with one hand but tucked his gun away so he could grab his phone.

"You're about to have proof that we're in control," Dahlia told Sinaver.

Vadisk shot them a smile.

"Say when," Montana ordered.

Vadisk yelled something, then nodded at Montana. He activated an internal door alarm, then flicked all the lights off. He counted to five, then turned the alarm off and the lights on again.

There was a bit more yelling, and Vadisk motioned him forward. Montana positioned Sinaver by the door, and Vadisk opened it.

The small group in the hall stared at their helpless leader, then started to back up as Vadisk shouted orders.

"Once we start moving, I want you to hold on to his arm and put your gun against his ribs," Montana told Dahlia. "Stay as close to him as you can."

"So they don't shoot me?"

"Exactly."

"And what about Vadisk? We can't all use Sinaver as a human shield."

"We have to trust that if someone tries to shoot him, Vadisk will shoot them first."

Vadisk motioned them forward, and Montana slowly pushed Sinaver out into the hall. The militia were on their knees, guns on the ground. At Vadisk's order, Dahlia started picking them up, her arms piled with weapons in a way that made Montana's eye twitch.

Dahlia darted back into the office, emerging only seconds later holding the garbage can—now full of guns—in one arm. She went back to Sinaver's side, her own gun pressed to his ribs.

Then they started for the exit.

There was one tense moment when a man jumped out from behind the stairs as they were on their way down, gun raised, but Vadisk, who was three steps up, kicked his hand in a lightning-fast move that sent the gun cartwheeling through the air. The distinct crack that accompanied the kick made Montana think Vadisk had broken either the man's hand or his wrist.

They made it outside, where the laundry van waited, back doors still open.

Montana turned, walking backward so Sinaver was a shield between them and the windows. It would be really fucking easy for a sniper to pop his head like a grape.

"What if they planted a car bomb?" Dahlia asked, voice unsteady.

"If they had those skills or planning abilities, we wouldn't have made it this far," Montana said. "Get in."

Dahlia climbed into the back of the van as Vadisk jumped into the driver's seat.

Montana got himself and Sinaver in, barely closing the doors as Vadisk hit the gas.

"You have grenades?" Vadisk called back as he took the corner at what felt like a hundred miles an hour.

Dahlia and Montana crashed up against the shelves. Sinaver made a muffled sound as his laundry cart careened around.

"Yes," Montana said once he was upright. He'd grabbed supplies back in the secret room. "Two flash, two sting balls, one actual grenade."

"Get up here. Dahlia, guard our hostage."

Montana made his way to the front, sliding into the passenger seat. Dahlia had one arm hooked around a shelving unit to keep her balance as Vadisk drove like they were crash-proof, the other holding her gun on Sinaver.

They were almost to the gate in the wall of the property.

"Ram it?" Montana asked.

"Ram it," Vadisk agreed with a grin.

"Dahlia, get down," Montana called back.

His very smart wife didn't ask questions, just dropped to her knees and braced herself.

The van crashed through the gates like it was a rocket, the guard watching them with wide eyes as they blew past.

"Make it hard for them to follow," Vadisk said as he cut a sharp turn onto the main road.

Montana grabbed the grenade from his pocket and leaned out the window. "Fire!" He tossed it and ducked back inside.

The grenade hit the road behind them, blowing a massive hole in the asphalt as the sound wave buffeted the van.

Dahlia rose, clinging to the shelf once more. "I can't decide if this is exciting or terrifying."

"This thing can't go fast enough for it to really be terrifying," Vadisk called back.

Montana leaned to look at the speedometer. Holy shit. How fast did Vadisk want it to go?

His phone pinged, and a second later, he was looking at a live satellite image of Crimea. Fuck yes, the Grand Master had come through. He zoomed in until he could see it—the white top of the van.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

"Shit," Vadisk said. "They called the actual authorities." He glanced at the map on his phone.

Montana looked too, frantically flicking his screen as he tried to find an alternate route. There was no other route to take, no road for them to use as a diversion.

"There's an intersection coming up, but don't stop or slow down," Montana said. "There's no other traffic, just go. The police are on the other road but if we're fast enough, we'll be in front of them."

Vadisk looked over, brows raised, but didn't slow as they whipped through a major intersection. A second later, police cars turned onto the road behind them, sirens blaring.

"How?" Vadisk asked.

"Live satellite feed."

Vadisk grunted in approval. "How close can I get the car to the boat?"

Montana slid the map to the coast, finding the small private marina. There were only four boats docked there, and Montana easily spotted Sinaver's.

"Pretty close, assuming there isn't a wall or fence I can't see from this angle," he said.

"Good." Vadisk cleared his throat. "This is going to be messy."

Once or twice, one of the police cars behind them tried to push the van off the road, but Vadisk handled it beautifully, at one point slamming on the brakes so the cop cars whipped passed, then sped up, tapping their quarter panels in a perfect PIT maneuver that spun them off the road.

"Dahlia out first," Vadisk said as they turned a corner and saw the water spread out before them.

"Yep," Montana agreed.

"Then you and Sinaver, I'll cover you."

"Nope. Then you, you provide cover, and Sinaver and I come last," Montana insisted.

Vadisk shook his head. "You need to drive the boat."

"Shit, that's right. Then you take Sinaver, and I'll take Dahlia. Turn right."

Vadisk whipped the wheel, and the van tilted alarmingly as they turned into the small marina parking lot.

"Maybe slow down just a little…" Montana braced his palms on the dash, sure they were about to end up in the water.

"Which way?"

"There. Just go over that curb. Oof, yes, okay." Montana scrambled into the back, hauling Sinaver out of the laundry bin and briefly hugging Dahlia, who looked a little green. "Ready to run?" he whispered against her temple.

She nodded. It was shaky, but she nodded. It would take more than impending doom and a high-speed car chase to rattle his wife.

The van rocked to a halt on the wooden dock that hugged the shore. A longer dock stuck out perpendicularly, and branching from that were the narrow wooden paths that sectioned off each slip. The long dock was too narrow for the van, which meant, they'd have to run for the boat.

Montana threw open the back doors and jumped out, holding tightly to Dahlia's hand. Together, they raced toward the moored boats, their footsteps pounding on the wood. Montana risked a glance behind—Vadisk had Sinaver, and he was running, though not fast as Sinaver was more stumbling than running. Up on the shore, the first of the cop cars—which might have been military police or whatever the equivalent was, based on the markings on the cars—pulled into the parking area.

They passed the first vessel, a party boat that had delusions of being a yacht. It was also one of Sinaver's but not the one they were taking.

Montana turned onto the narrow jetty between the pleasure boat and the sleek sport catamaran, the yacht providing cover.

He released Dahlia's hand, took a running start, and leapt up onto the bow of the catamaran. A few steps more and he dropped down into the cockpit. He wanted to make sure the boat worked before he got Dahlia on board.

The key chain was looped over the gear shaft, and Montana grinned as he started the ignition, then went to the side.

"Unwind that line," he said, pointing.

Dahlia shoved her gun into her pocket and handled the rope with quick, if unsure, movements, as he flipped the ladder over the side.

Montana hauled the mooring line on board, then held out his hand for Dahlia as Vadisk rounded the corner. The sick tightness in Montana's gut eased.

She'd just cleared the side and was standing on the deck, about to drop down into the cockpit with him, when a shot rang out.

Dahlia fell against him, Montana staggering back as he cradled her in his arms. He dropped low, trying to shelter both of them. Sliding his own gun free, he peeked over the edge, spotting an officer with a gun standing on top of one of the police vehicles. Coupled with the elevation of the parking lot, that gave him a clear line of sight over the yacht.

Montana rose, firing off four shots. The man on the car jumped down, and Montana turned to Dahlia.

Her eyes were screwed shut, her teeth clenched.

Blood was soaking her white pant leg.

She'd been shot.

"Montana," Vadisk called from the dock.

"Hold on, honey," he whispered to Dahlia. "Just hold on and I'll get us the hell out of here."

Staying low, Montana leaned over the side, grabbed Sinaver under the arms, and hauled him aboard. He forced the older man to stand, facing the shore, hoping no one would shoot at Vadisk as he climbed on since they'd risk shooting Sinaver.

"Down," Montana snapped at Vadisk once he was on board. Vadisk immediately crouched, and Montana heard his sharp inhale as he caught sight of Dahlia's injury.

"Dahlia? Dahlia!" Vadisk grabbed their wife, who'd opened her eyes, murmuring that she was fine.

Montana shoved Sinaver into one of the four captain's chairs in the cockpit and leapt to the helm. The boat had been purring as it idled, and the instant he put it in reverse, the powerful ship eased back out of the slip, the deck rumbling under his feet.

Topside, the only seating was the four captain's chairs, and the net trampoline strung across the space between the dual hulls. There was a short set of steps and a small door between the helm seat and the front passenger chair.

"There might be something below deck," Montana shouted as he revved, reversing out of the slip at a speed that would make most boat enthusiasts pass out in horror.

Vadisk crab-walked over, turning sideways to get through the door.

"Not much," he called up, "but there's a bench and a sink."

Montana didn't answer, his focus entirely on getting them the hell out of there. He spun the wheel and threw the boat into gear. The slick catamaran sliced through the water as shots rang out behind them. Montana flinched each time, knowing his back made a nice broad target, but they were almost to open water and getting farther away each second.

Montana consulted the gyrocompass mounted to the helm. They were headed southwest and would turn south and head for Turkish waters once they'd cleared the shallow bay that formed this part of the coast.

Montana checked on Sinaver, fastening his seat belt more to use it as a restraint than because he was concerned for the other man's safety. Though it would be a pain in the ass if he fell overboard right now.

He ached to go check on Dahlia but stayed at the helm, pushing the boat to its maximum speed, the pointed tips of the catamaran hulls lifting up off the water, tipping the boat up at an angle.

Almost, almost.

He repeated the word like a mantra.

Almost free.

Almost safe.