Page 25 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
More shots followed—a steady barrage that turned my peaceful sanctuary into a war zone. I could hear them hitting the exterior walls, the front door, the windows that faced the circular driveway. Professional work, methodical and thorough, designed to pin down anyone inside while the shooters repositioned.
Through the chaos, I heard the distinctive sound of my Audi’s engine roaring as Drew executed what sounded like a desperate U-turn. Tires screamed against asphalt, and I realized with growing horror that they were still close enough to be caught in the crossfire.
My phone was in my hand before I’d consciously decided to reach for it, muscle memory taking over as higher brain functions shut down under the weight of pure terror. There was only one number I could think to call, only one person whose voice might cut through the panic that was threatening to drown me.
“Lev.” His name came out as barely more than a whisper, my throat closed with fear.
“Anya?” The sound of his voice—sharp with immediate concern—made something inside me crack open. “What’s wrong?”
“Shooting,” I managed, flinching as another volley of bullets peppered the front of the house. “They’re shooting at the house. Drew and Sasha—they were leaving, and—”
“Where are you now?” His voice had gone cold and professional, the same tone I’d heard him use when discussing business with my brother.
“Living room. Behind the couch.” I could hear shouting outside now, voices calling orders in what sounded like Ukrainian. “I think they’re moving closer.”
“Stay down. Stay exactly where you are. I’m coming.”
The line went dead, and I was alone again with the sound of systematic destruction and my own ragged breathing. Minutes stretched like hours as I huddled behind my inadequate shelter, listening to my beautiful home being torn apart by people who wanted me dead for reasons I couldn’t even begin to fathom.
When the shooting finally stopped, the silence was almost worse than the noise had been. I strained to hear footsteps, voices, any sign of what was happening beyond my shattered windows. Instead, there was only the distant sound of sirens and my own pulse thundering in my ears.
My phone rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin before recognizing Drew’s number.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was tight with controlled urgency.
“No,” I whispered. “Scared, but not hurt. What about Sasha? Is she—”
“She took a bullet in the shoulder, but she’s conscious and stable. Paramedics are with her now.” I heard him speaking to someone else in rapid Russian before coming back on the line. “I’m coming to get you. Stay where you are.”
The next few minutes passed in a blur of sirens and shouted orders and the sound of heavy boots on broken glass. Drew appeared in my ruined doorway like an avenging angel, his clothes torn and bloodstained, but his movements steady and sure.
“Come on,” he said, extending a hand to help me up. “We need to get you somewhere safe.”
I let him pull me to my feet, my legs shaking with residual adrenaline as I surveyed the destruction of my sanctuary. Bullet holes decorated the walls like some kind of modern art installation, and glass crunched under my feet as we picked our way toward the door.
Outside, the scene looked like something from a war movie. Police cars and ambulances lined the circular driveway, their red and blue lights painting everything in harsh, shifting colors. Crime scene tape fluttered in the evening breeze, and uniformed officers moved with the kind of grim efficiency that spoke of experience with this type of violence.
I saw Sasha being loaded into an ambulance, her face pale but determined as a paramedic worked on her shoulder. Our eyes met across the chaos, and she managed a weak smile that made my chest tighten with guilt and relief in equal measure.
“This is my fault,” I said, the words scraping out of my throat like glass. “If I hadn’t made her take my car—”
“This isn’t your fault.” Drew’s voice cut through my spiraling guilt with surgical precision. “This is the fault of whoever ordered the hit. Everything else is just circumstance.”
Before I could respond, another car pulled into the driveway—sleek and black and moving with the kind of controlled aggression that I recognized immediately. Lev emerged from the driver’s seat like something out of a nightmare, his face carved from stone and his eyes scanning the scene with predatory intensity.
When his gaze found mine, something shifted in his expression—relief so sharp it was almost pain, followed immediately by a fury so cold it made me shiver despite the warm evening air.
He crossed the distance between us in long strides, his hands reaching for me before he seemed to catch himself. For a moment, we stood frozen in the space between wantingand holding back, surrounded by the evidence of how quickly everything safe could be destroyed.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was rough, scraped raw with an emotion I couldn’t identify.
“No,” I said, and then, because I couldn’t help myself: “I called you.”
Something flickered behind his eyes—satisfaction maybe, that I’d turned to him when my world was falling apart. Before either of us could say anything else, my phone rang with Maxim’s distinctive ringtone.
I answered without thinking, my brother’s voice exploding from the speaker with a fury that made even Lev take a step back.
“What the fuck happened?” Maxim’s accent was thicker than usual, a sure sign that his temper was running white-hot. “Drew called me, said there was shooting. Are you hurt? Is Sasha—”
