Broken Hope

by Nicole Fox

  And I don’t intend to ever be held back again.

  When Luka gets off the phone, he turns towards me, and I see the flare of pain in his face as his leg shifts.

  I’m worried about him.

  About infection, about whether he will be able to walk into the ranch and walk out again with injuries so extensive.

  But just as he isn’t doubting me, I have no intention of doubting him. Our relationship has to be built on mutual trust or it will never last.

  “What is the plan?” I ask.

  “Everyone is on board,” Luka says. “They’ve been looking since the minute I left for the auction. But they didn’t find anything. Not even a whisper. They agree that your idea has the most merit.”

  “So, we are going now?” I ask, leg bouncing with nervous energy.

  Luka told me I should go back to the mansion and rest, but there is no way I could sleep.

  I’m exhausted. I feel it deep down in my bones in a way I’ve never felt tired before. But there is no way I could sleep. Not when my baby is far away from me and with strangers.

  I won’t be able to sleep until she is home.

  Luka nods. “We are going now. Everyone is headed there. We are going to meet on the old highway just outside the ranch and just like they did at the inn, we are all going to approach together. The Morrisons won’t have time to run even if they do see us coming.”

  I reach across the seat and squeeze his hand, gripping his fingers to help ground myself as we drive towards the ranch. Towards the place where we will hopefully find out daughter.

  The mission is rushed and disorganized, but there isn’t time for more.

  Rian could be receiving word right this minute that the Cartel at the inn was decimated. She might guess that Luka and I have escaped and are coming for her. There is no time to waste formulating a plan of attack. If we do, we might get there to find the Morrisons and Milaya are already gone.

  I pray they are still there.

  I pray Milaya is with them.

  As we drive towards the meeting spot, I squeeze Luka’s hand and offer up one more prayer to whoever is listening:

  I pray that my family will make it back together.

  Once everyone is in position, we decide to walk.

  Driving down the long dirt road to the house is too noisy and will draw too much attention. Walking is better because we can stay in the tree line until the last moment when we need to cut across the large lawn that surrounds the house.

  Plus, on foot, men can actually take up position at every point around the house and ensure that no one inside can escape without us knowing it.

  The only problem is that walking, especially across uneven ground, puts a lot of pressure on Luka’s leg. He puts on a brave face, clenching his jaw and walking tall, but I can tell he is uncomfortable. And the closer we get to the house, the worse his limp gets.

  “Are you ready?” I ask him. What I really mean is, Are you okay? Can you do this? Will we make it out?

  But I don’t say any of that.

  Luka looks down at me, grabs my hand, and smiles. “We are ready.”

  Just as a shadow of peace begins to creep over me, the crack of gunfire fills the air.

  Luka yanks me behind him and stops moving, his entire body rigid and on high alert.

  “Where did that come from?” a man yells.

  We all look around, but aren’t sure.

  Then, it becomes obvious.

  Bullets fly from the second floor windows of the house. They whiz past us, exploding into tree trunks, wood shrapnel flying.

  Luka throws me on the ground and sprawls over me. “They were ready for us.”

  “Who?” I ask. I can’t imagine Rian Morrison and her parents taking up position in their bedroom windows to shoot at us. They wouldn’t fire; they would run.

  “The Irish,” he growls. Then, he turns back to his men. “Fire back. But restrain yourself when you can. We don’t know where Milaya is.”

  My heart stutters in my chest at the thought that Milaya could be caught in the crossfire. Surely the Morrisons would be smart enough to keep her far away from this shootout, right?

  “She is fine,” Luka whispers into my ear, lifting himself up to his good leg.

  I scramble up quickly and help him up. “We need to get in there and make sure.”

  Luka nods and then positions himself in front of me as a human shield. I want to argue, but I know it would do no good. That is one battle my newfound independence will never win. There is no chance Luka will let me take a bullet for him.

  The Bratva spread out behind us, taking up position behind trees and small outbuildings around the ranch. They fire up at the house, and based on the frequency of return fire, I guess some of their shots are finding their targets.

  Unfortunately, the Irish are finding their marks, too.

  When I look back over my shoulder, I can see several Bratva members facedown in the grass.

  I turn away and try to push the thought from my mind for now. There is nothing we can do about it.

  Mourn later. Fight now.

  Luka waves a few men ahead of us, instructing them to lead the way into the house. As soon as they run past us, we pick up our pace and follow after them.

  “We stick together!” Luka yells over the shots ringing out. “We get inside and search room by room until we find them.”

  I begin to nod, but then I see something at the far-right corner of the house between the sunporch and the garage.

  A flash of movement.

  I freeze and pull away from Luka, trying to get a better look.

  “Eve,” he says, grabbing my hand.

  “I saw something.” I slip out of his grip and move towards the corner of the house. Then, I see her.

  Rian Morrison.

  She runs from the garage and is crossing the open grass to get to a side door on the sunporch.

  She is here.

  When I turn back to Luka, I know he has seen her, too.

  “I have to go,” I yell.

  Before I can, Luka grabs my hand. “We can follow her once we are inside. We can go ahead with our plan and find her then.”

  “She could escape back through the sunporch. I have to go through that door now.”

  Luka’s eyes narrow. He looks from me to the corner of the house, and we only have a few precious seconds for him to make his decision before Rian gets inside and disappears in the vastness of the house. Or finds another door to escape.

  “Our men aren’t in position like we wanted,” I say, moving backwards towards where I last saw Rian. “There are too many holes in our plan now. We don’t have time to waste. Trust me. Please. For Milaya’s sake.”

  Suddenly, Luka grabs my hand and pulls me against him, pressing his lips to mine firmly and quickly.

  Then, he spins me back towards the corner of the house. “Run, and I’ll cover you.”

  I don’t hesitate. I just take off running for the corner of the house as fast as my body and my high-heeled boots will let me.

  With every step, the heels sink into the ground, but I keep going, ignoring the burning in my thighs as I push myself.

  I hear Luka behind me, but then there is a shout.

  I turn and see him on the ground.

  For a moment, my heart is lodged in my throat, making it impossible to breathe. I freeze, staring back at his form on the ground.

  Then, he struggles up and waves me on.

  He lifts his gun up and pulls the trigger. A man on the roof shakes as the shot hits, and then he tumbles forward off the roof, landing ten feet to my left.

  “Go!” Luka yells at me again.

  This time, I don’t hesitate. I hold my gun close to my chest and run.

  Luka is okay. For now.

  Luka is alive. For now.

  And now is all we have.

  I run through the sunporch door and into a small sitting room, but I don’t see Rian anywhere.

  The house is dark, but otherwi
se ordinary. It looks like any normal living room in any normal house anywhere in the country.

  Except for the sounds of footsteps and gunfire coming from the other end of the house.

  Except for the shattered living room window.

  Glass is sprinkled across the floor like confetti, sparkling in the last rays of sunlight breaking through the trees.

  The house seems to be vibrating around me with noise and movement and violence. It is so intense I almost feel seasick.

  But I grab the corner of the couch and listen, trying to pick out any sound that will lead me to Rian or Milaya.

  Then, through all of the din, I hear a cry.

  At first, I think I must be imagining it. It is just my mind playing tricks on me, letting me hear what I want to hear.

  Then, I hear a tiny cough and another desperate cry.

  I remember nights spent sitting up with Milaya in her nursery when she wouldn’t go to sleep. When she cried and cried, and I wasn’t sure what to do to make her feel better. All of those moments that, at the time, felt endless and frustrating, were moments I looked back on while I was being tortured and held prisoner and forced to do things I would never do of my own free will.

  And now, I know without a doubt my baby is upstairs.

  I sprint to the nearest stairs and up them with tunnel vision.

  Nothing else matters.

  I don’t see anyone else or hear the gunfire. Every single one of my senses is focused in on Milaya and her cries and her needs.

  I’m so close to her. So close.

  I reach the top of the stairs and pause long enough to figure out where I need to go next.

  When I hear her cries again, I barrel towards them, not even bothering to stay quiet.

  Then, a door flies open and someone shoots.

  The crack of gunfire is so close it makes my ears ring. I drop to the floor, losing my gun in the process, and I don’t realize until I roll over that my back is roaring in pain.

  I’ve been hit.

  I don’t have time to worry about that, though, because Rian Morrison is standing over me with a gun.

  I’ve barely recognized who she is before I swing my legs to the side and kick out at her.

  My ankle swipes the back of her knee, and like a tower of wooden blocks, Rian topples onto the floor next to me.

  I spin and grab for the gun, but Rian is faster than I am. She pulls it back, sits up, and takes aim. Just as she pulls the trigger, I knock the gun to the side, but it isn’t enough.

  Heat courses through my thigh followed by flashes of pain so blinding I can barely see.

  I scream and want nothing more than to grab my leg and curl up in the fetal position, but at that very second, Milaya begins to cry again.

  I hear it. Her tiny voice cries out, followed by dainty little coughs.

  My helpless baby is in the room just a few feet away from me, and I can’t die here.

  Not like this. Not when I’m so close.

  My gun is too far away and the likelihood that I’ll be able to get Rian’s gun out of her hands is slim. So, before Rian can recover and get into shooting position again, I reach down into my boots and pull free the scalpel I hid between the boot and the inner lining when we were riding in the SUV. I didn’t know when or if I would need it again, but I wanted to be prepared, and now I’m happier than ever for that preparation.

  I slash the blade clumsily at Rian’s leg and manage to find purchase. The blade, while small, was created for carving through human flesh, and it does its job, gouging a deep wound in Rian’s ankle.

  She screams, her tidy blonde ponytail flailing out behind her like a possessed spider, and jumps away from me.

  I slash out again and again, crawling after her and carving up her legs until blood is coating the bottom half of her shins and dripping onto the floor.

  Rian is so desperate to get away from me she slams into the wall. She inhales sharply, and I realize she has knocked the wind out of herself. As quickly as I can, I spring to my feet and grab for the gun.

  She fights, gritting her teeth and trying to pull it back, but I slam the heel of my boot on the top of her foot, and she screams and loses her grip.

  “Please.” She falls to her knees. The carpet is saturated with her blood, and it squelches under her weight. “Please don’t kill me. Not where Milaya can hear.”

  Hearing my daughter’s name on Rian’s lips sends me into a blind rage. A kind of primal protectiveness rises up in me, and I lift the gun and pull the trigger.

  The shot hits Rian in the chest.

  She falls back against the wall, her legs folded awkwardly beneath her like a broken accordion.

  When she looks down at her chest, I can tell she is surprised. She dabs at the bloodstain growing on her shirt and then stares down at her hand. Finally, she slips to the floor, her cheek against the carpet.

  Now that the immediate threat is gone, I can feel my conscience breaking through the cloud of rage. I should save Rian. I should try to get her some help, maybe mend a fence between the Volkov family and the Morrisons. I could end the longstanding feud between the Russians and the Irish with this hand of mercy.

  But then I hear Milaya cry.

  My sweet Milaya. My little girl.

  My daughter, who was snatched from her crib because of this woman’s doing.

  My precious baby, who has been without her mama and papa for almost ten days. And this bitch threatened to sell Milaya on the black market if I disobeyed her.

  Just like that, the tiny seed of empathy inside of me is squashed.

  Rian tries to lift her face, reaching a hand out to me as though to touch my boot.

  I pick up my foot and drive the heel of my shoe into her hand. Then, I walk past her and into the bedroom.

  I go to get my daughter, and I leave Rian Morrison to die.

  Milaya is lying in the middle of a crib, her arms and legs thrashing, face red from crying. As soon as I pick her up, she begins to ease. When her little face is pressed against my neck, she whimpers and then settles entirely.

  Love and relief like I’ve never known wash through me.

  It feels like I’ve been without a key body part and it has finally been returned to me. At long last, I can function normally.

  Almost.

  But I still don’t know where Luka is or if he is alive.

  “It’s okay, sweet girl,” I whisper, rocking her against my chest. “Mama is here.”

  I look around the room and realize there is more than just a crib in here. It is an entire nursery.

  There is art hanging on the wall, a mobile above the crib, and a changing table stocked with diapers. A white dress sits in the corner, every drawer filled with pink frilly outfits and tiny baby shoes. The closet is stocked with extra sheets, bottles, and pacifiers.

  The Morrisons were preparing to keep Milaya. To raise her.

  They were going to get rid of me and Luka and keep our daughter as their own.

  The thought makes me sick, and suddenly, I can’t spend another second in this room. In this house.

  We have to get out.

  I press Milaya closer to my chest, shielding her eyes from the blood and chaos of the hallway.

  She is in the same position on the floor as when I left her. If she isn’t dead yet, she will be soon.

  Just as I’m about to step over Rian, I hear footsteps pounding up the stairs.

  I freeze, clutching Milaya to me, and then quickly grab the gun and hold it out, ready to shoot my way out of this house if I have to.

  Then, I hear the lull in the steps. One loud thud and then a drag. One loud thud and then a drag.

  I realize it is Luka coming up the stairs just as he rounds the corner.

  When he sees the two of us standing in the hallway, his eyes go wide, and he lets out a sigh of relief that is close to a sob.

  “Thank God,” he says, holding out his arms to catch me as I throw myself against him.

  “You’re okay,” I w
hisper tearfully against his neck.

  “I’m okay,” he whispers. Then, he pulls away and snuggles the back of Milaya’s head, kissing her tiny neck. “And you’re okay, too.”

  “She’s perfect.” My lip trembles, and I drop the gun to wipe at my eyes. “She is perfectly safe.”

  Luka looks past me and winces. “The same can’t be said for Agent Morrison.”

  Even hearing her name floods my senses with the same rage I felt before. I wonder how long it will be before I can think about her without wishing I could kill her all over again.

  “Can we go?” I ask. “Is it over? I want to go home.”

  There is a commotion behind me, footsteps and shouting. Then, two shots and silence.

  “Now we can,” Luka says. “The Bratva just took out the last two gunmen.”

  Milaya yawns and then lays her cheek against my shoulder, and that mixed with the relief of this—the last week and a half of fear and torture and terror—finally being over makes me weep.

  I lay my head on Luka’s shoulder, our daughter cradled between us, and cry with relief and happiness and exhaustion.

  Luka smooths a hand down my back and then kisses me on the forehead. “Let’s go home.”

  With one arm around his waist and the other around Milaya, I walk down the stairs and into the night.

  It is over. Finally, it is all over.

  Epilogue

  Luka

  Eve looks so at home in our kitchen, and I lean back against the counter and watch her work, taking in the sight.

  It has only been three days since our escape from the Cartel, but I have logged a lifetime of memories in that time.

  I’ve watched Eve sleep as the sun rises, casting our room in golden morning light. I’ve studied Milaya’s dimpled hands reaching for me. I’ve sat in the hallway and listened to the soothing sound of Eve singing our daughter to sleep and kissing her good night.

  In three days, I have remembered and memorized every single thing I am grateful for in this life. Without fail, every single one of those things involves Eve and Milaya.

  My girls. My family.

  “Are you paying attention?” Eve asks, peering over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised.