Chapter 2 - The Price of Mercy
“They didn't come to rescue him. They came to make sure he was dead.”The crawlspace was tight, smelling of wet earth and rotting cedar. Above them, the heavy, rhythmic thuds of combat boots vibrated through the floorboards.
Elena pressed her back against the dirt wall, holding her breath so hard her lungs burned. Through the cracks in the floorboards above, she could see beams of flashlight beam slicing through the darkness of her living room.
“Clear the kitchen!” a voice barked.
“The bed is warm,” another replied. “They were here. Not even five minutes ago.”
Through the thin gap in the wood, Elena saw a pair of polished leather shoes stop right next to the dining table. Just inches above her head.
“He survived the crash,” the smooth voice from the porch said. Elena could see the hem of a high-end cashmere overcoat. “Unbelievable. The devil himself must be holding his hand. Find him. If he breathes, stop it.”
Elena’s blood ran cold. They weren't his rescuers. This wasn't a extraction team. It was a clean-up crew. The private jet hadn't suffered an engine failure; it had been sabotaged.
Suddenly, a heavy drop of warm liquid fell through the floorboard crack, landing directly on Elena’s cheek. She wiped it instinctively. It was thick, dark, and metallic.
Blood.
She looked up. Volkov was hovering directly above her on the ladder, his face pale, his jaw clenched in agony. The effort of moving had reopened his internal injuries. He was bleeding out right above the killers.
If a single drop of blood fell onto the floor below and the men noticed, they were dead.
Elena acted on pure instinct. She reached up, placing her hand directly over the dripping wound on Volkov's side, using her own palm as a makeshift bandage to catch the flow. He stiffened, his silver eyes flashing in the darkness, but he didn't make a sound.
“Sir!” a shout came from the back of the house. “The back door is locked from the inside, but the window in the bathroom is unlatched. Footprints in the mud outside heading toward the tree line!”
The leather shoes turned. “Move. He’s injured. He won't get far in this cold. Leave two men to torch the house. We leave no traces of the nurse.”
Torch the house.
Elena’s heart stopped. They were going to burn her home—with them inside it.
The footsteps retreated, leaving only the heavy, ominous sound of gasoline being splashed onto her living room floor. The chemical stench began to seep through the floorboards, suffocating and sharp.
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“We have to go,” Volkov whispered, his voice dangerously weak. “The crawlspace vents to the eastern foundation. There is a grate. We crawl.”
With the smell of gasoline intensifying and the first spark of fire crackling above them, they began to crawl through the dirt, dragging themselves into the suffocating dark.
