The Russian Bratva Boss Told Her “Leave.” She Did. He Spent 8 Months Finding Her.

Before Roman could physically pick her up and throw her over his shoulder, the front bay window of the bookstore exploded inward.

A high-velocity sniper round shattered the thick glass, tearing through a display of hardcover books and embedding itself deep into the brick wall behind them.

“Down!” Roman roared, throwing his entire body over Sienna and driving her hard to the floorboards behind the heavy oak checkout counter.

A second shot followed instantly, the suppressed crack echoing from the roof of the fishing warehouse across the street as glass rained down upon them.

Nikolai had already dropped behind the brick masonry of the entrance, returning two rapid, precise shots through the broken window to suppress the sniper.

“We have three shooters moving across the street from the pier!” Nikolai shouted over the ringing sound of shattering glass and car alarms.

Roman looked down at Sienna, who was trapped beneath his weight on the dusty floor, her breathing rapid but her eyes completely clear of hysteria.

“Are you hit?” he demanded, his hands moving rapidly over her arms and shoulders to check for any sign of blood or injury.

“I’m fine!” she gasped, pushing against his chest to give herself room to breathe. “The loading door is ten feet behind us, Roman!”

“On my count, we move to the alley,” Roman instructed Nikolai, his tactical mind operating with icy, mechanical precision amidst the chaos.

He pulled a secondary magazine from his pocket, locking it into his Sig Sauer with a sharp, metallic click that sounded louder than his heartbeat.

“Nikolai, lay down suppressing fire on the doorway; Sienna, keep your head below the counter line and do not let go of my belt.”

He didn't wait for her to argue; he grabbed the back of her sweater with his left hand, pulling her low against his side as he rose to a crouch.

“Three, two, one—move!” Roman shouted, pivoting around the edge of the counter and firing three rapid rounds toward the shattered front entrance.

Nikolai opened up with a continuous stream of fire from his heavy sidearm, forcing the approaching Sokolov soldiers to dive behind parked cars for cover.

Roman practically dragged Sienna through the narrow rear doorway, kicking the heavy wooden door shut with his boot and throwing the steel deadbolt.

They were in a narrow, rain-slicked cobblestone alleyway that smelled of wet brick, dumpster grease, and salt spray from the nearby docks.

Nikolai slipped through the secondary fire exit a second later, his shoulder bleeding slightly from a flying shard of glass, but his weapon still raised.

“The Suburban is compromised; they have a team covering the main intersection,” Nikolai said, wiping rain and blood from his forehead with his sleeve.

Sienna reached into her pocket, pulling out a set of keys attached to a faded leather fob and pressing them into Roman’s empty hand.