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CHAPTER SIXTY- NINE ROSE AMARA POV "This won't do." Pakstan checks his gun, then curses in Russian. He's down to a few bullets. I'm not any better off. My gaze trails to Pharaoah, who's firing over the car's hood. The three of us are huddled behind the vehicle, caught in a gunfight that has lasted only a few minutes but feels like an eternity. I had expected the British, but it's worse. Their Albanian allies have joined the fray and seem to have no fear. They readily step into gunfire as long as it means taking out their targets. Uncle River once told me that if a soldier dies, the Albanian leader honors him and ensures his name goes down in the organization's history with reverence. The ambush was smart. They managed to catch Pakstan, Pharaoah, and me together with only a few guards. Outnumbered, it's easier for them to try and take us out now. We've been trying to stall until backup arrives. 'How much do you have left?" I ask Pharaoah. 'Five." He fires a shot, hitting an Albanian in the chest. 'Four." 'They keep multiplying like fvcking cockroaches." Pakstan kills two more, but the rest keep advancing, using the cars as shields. They probably know we'll be out of ammunition soon, so they don't mind sacrificing a few soldiers to empty our guns. At this rate, our deaths are a matter of when, not if. 'Stop firing," I tell them. 'Try hiding more." 'When I need your help to tell me how to shoot, I'll ask for it," Pharaoah snaps without looking at me. He's distracted, his gaze straying to Aleksander, a car ahead of us with Pakstan's senior guard. They, along with a few other soldiers, form our front line. 'No offense, Rayenka, but leave this to me." Pakstan's critical gaze scans ahead, likely trying to figure out how to turn this into a fistfight. "They want us out of bullets." I stand between Pharaoah and Pakstan, crouched, peering through the car's window at the scene. There are still many of them, and Aleksander is likely out of bullets, his feminine features creased with exertion. He stares back at us—or more precisely, at Pharaoah—and mouths, 'Prosti menya." Forgive me. 'No!" Pharaoah ignores the bullets and charges toward his second-in-command. I grab him by the jacket, but he yanks my hand away and runs into the fray. I lose my balance from the force of his push. Before I hit the ground, I see an Albanian approaching. 'Careful!" I scream at Pakstan. He shoots the man in the face, creating a bloody hole, and grabs my arm to keep me upright. 'Fvck. I'm out." He tosses his gun aside. 'And stay still. You're going to get yourself killed." "I'm fine. Pharaoah, however…" I don't get to finish when another guard rushes toward us. 'Let me handle this sucker." Pakstan steps in front of me. 'Don't be an idiot—he has a gun." He winks at me over his shoulder. 'Didn't stop me before." 'You're not bulletproof, asshole." 'I love your tough love, Rayenka." He grins. 'Besides, I need to stay alive for that marriage and shit." He goes stRoseght for the guard, and I attempt to shoot on his behalf, but I don't get the chance. Two others gang up on me. I shoot the first, but before I can do the same to the other, he kicks my gun away, nearly breaking my wrist. Instead of shooting me, he comes at me. I grab his arm and knee him in the crotch. My skirt tears at the bottom, but it's a small price to pay. He howls in pain, and I use the chance to try to snatch his rifle. A black bag is shoved over my head from behind. My nails dig into the fabric, but it's strapped so tight no air comes in. Worse, I'm breathing in some sort of funny smell. I kick my leg up, but it connects with nothing. I buck against the one holding me, but two other hands join in immobilizing me. No. I'm not going to die. I still have a lot to do, and…Ethan and I didn't even get a good start yet. I can't die. I elbow the body behind me, but his hold on the bag doesn't loosen. I feel lightheaded, and my movements slow. My harsh breathing withers away, and I fall slack against meaty arms. No. No… I try to kick, but my limbs don't move. Soon enough, darkness swallows me whole. ---- ETHAN's POV I barge out of the car before it fully stops moving. The scene before me is a battlefield. A few men lie on the ground, their blood forming pools on the filthy asphalt. Others are hiding from the gunfire behind cars. But there's nothing to hide from. More accurately, we're late. Fvck. Laye motions for his guards to check the perimeter, and they comply with sharp nods. I remain in place, feet planted solidly on the ground, as my gaze roams the cars and the people left behind, whether alive or with their heads down. Every time I see a motionless body, my heartbeat explodes in my ears until I make sure it's not Rose. There's no trace of her. None. Nada. My hand trembles around the gun, and it's a fvcking first. After taking a life when I was ten, my hand has never trembled around a weapon. Guns, rifles, and knives aren't just weapons; they are extensions of my hand, a method to stay alive and eradicate anyone who stands in my path. This is the first time my weapon isn't fulfilling its role. I failed her, and so it failed me. 'Where the fvck did they go?" Pharaoah's agitated voice grabs my attention, and I sprint toward him. Although he and Rose hate each other, he wouldn't kill her. Besides, as much as I loathe the fvcker, Pakstan, he would make it his mission to protect the Pakhan's grandniece. Laye joins me, intently watching the scene, probably recreating it in his mind. We find Pharaoah between two cars riddled with bullet holes. Two bodies lie limp around him as he punches an Albanian to a pulp. The man's features are unrecognizable, his eyes swollen, his lip busted, his shirt soaked with blood and dirt. Every time Pharaoah punches him, the man's blood sprays on his shirt, face, and glasses. It's a first for someone so meticulous who never gets his hands dirty. 'I said…" He breathes harshly. 'Where the fvck is your nest of cowards? Where do you rats hide? Huh?" The man groans in obvious pain but says nothing. If anything, he smirks, earning him a vicious punch to the skull. 'He won't talk." Pakstan leans against a car as his closest guard fusses with a wound in his bicep. 'The others didn't before we killed them." 'Where's Rose?" My voice is unrecognizable; it's rage and… fear. Fear so deep I can taste the bitterness of it. Pakstan shakes his head once. 'They took her." His words strike me like a thunderbolt in a raging sea. They took her. The British took her.