It’s impossible to tell who anyone is in this crowd. Most I can figure out by their body language is if their one of the upper class folks in the arts community, whereas some are more like me. Serious, always looking around for trouble.

So far I haven’t seen any that want to cause it, though.

I return from my quick sweep of the kitchen, but still nothing. Part of me prays that this will just be another boring party, but my bones tell me otherwise. I clench my hands into fists then relax them, feeling the pain still clustered around my knuckles from yesterday.

That failed assassin said someone would be here for Sonya, but the manor is clean. I catch Andrei’s eyes and he nods at me, and I slowly approach. Before I can get there, though, Andrei’s wife arrives and I hang back just out of reach.

“Have you seen Sonya?” she asks, looking around as she rubs her arms.

Andrei’s eyes go wide, glancing over Cassie’s head to me before he places a firm hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“No, I haven’t. Where did you last see her?” he asks, trying to remain calm, but he and I both know what this means. Someone got past our defenses.

“She was going to grab me a shawl from upstairs, but I checked and I can’t find her.”

I dart through the crowds for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. How did I lose her? I just saw her not five minutes ago and she was fine, laughing and talking with her friend. She caught me staring, even, and that’s why I felt safe enough to check the rest of the perimeter.

Stupid, stupid, I tell myself, pushing into the bedroom and flipping the lightswitch. The room stays dark, though, and I wonder if someone tampered with the fuse box. I move towards the nightstand, quickly turning on the light, only to see that the room is empty. The closet is open, filled with jackets, and I know this would be the room she’d go to for a shawl. The rest of the manor is off limits, and pretty Spartan other than sheets on the bed.

I push into the closet, looking for a shawl before my eyes land on the one that Sonya had arrived in, still neatly placed on the hanger. So somewhere, between where she was laughing with Cassie and this room, she disappeared.

I move out of the room and quickly scout down the end of the halls, but it’s completely still. Guests aren’t allowed up on this floor, so I’m not surprised by that, but I also don’t see the guard that was stationed up here. Discretely, I lift my phone, dialing the number.

Down the hall I can hear it ringing once. Twice. Still no answer. My footsteps are light as I make my way towards the sound, and I draw my trusty pistol. I don’t want to be unprepared as I push open the door and quickly see the guard, knocked out. Behind him is the service stairs, and I’m thankful for a break. I end call as I move cautiously down the wooden staircase.

It’s not as luxurious as the front of the manor. This section is older and was part of the original home that was added onto later, and I have to avoid certain parts of the steps so as not to make them groan beneath my weight.

“Call him,” I hear a man’s voice say in an agitated tone, like someone who's had to repeat himself too many times, “or you’ll be losing that pretty little pinkie.”

“I will not,” Sonya replies, and a rush of gratitude overwhelms me. She’s still okay, and she’s stronger than even I gave her credit for. Her voice is firm and resolute, and I take another step closer to where he’s taken her.

“Andrei will hear your pain. In person, or on the phone. If he doesn’t, then he’ll have to know your pain in another way. Like finding bits and pieces of you all over Brighton Beach. It’ll be a treasure hunt,” the man says in his French accent, and even I balk at the cruelty in his tone.

Sonya sobs, and I take another step closer to the room. He must have her in the old servant's kitchen. It’s the only place without a locked door down here.

“You’ll just kill me no matter what I do,” she protests and I can almost hear the sadistic bastard smile.

“Oui, mon chere. But it’s up to you how bad it hurts. You call him down here, and it’ll be quick. You don’t and... I make my statement in much more enjoyable ways.”

I have to beg myself not to rush in. She can hold him off. She can be brave just a little bit longer. If I rush, I could get both of us killed, but if I go slow... putting this mutt down will be my life’s greatest achievement.

Saving her... I can’t fuck this up.

“I don’t believe you!”

“Oh? You don’t believe I have the guts to take you apart bit by bit?”

I can’t take it anymore. It’s not bravado that pushes me on, but it’s instinct. I know I shouldn’t rush, but at the same time, I can sense that if I delay even a second longer, something bad is going to happen to her, and I’ll never be able to live with myself knowing that she was hurt because I took too long to save her.

My gun is drawn as I edge around the corner and spot them. She’s tied to a chair, and he’s behind her, grabbing for her fingers as she tries to ball her hands into fists to delay him. She spots me and gasps, which causes her captor to raise his head.

In that flash of a moment, a million things could happen. And I know them all. The many ways he could end her, or me, the many ways he could be prepared for me to pounce and do both. A true professional would have me shot down and before a heartbeat was up, he’d have a bullet in Sonya’s head and be on his way out the back door.

But I’m good at what I do too, and with a lifetime’s practiced reflexes I let go of all intent. I release any and all thought about what I should or could do, those things distract. In the heat of the moment when it’s life or death, the only thing you can do is rely on instinct and hope yours are good enough.

Mine are more than enough, I tell myself. And I sweep my arms up and let muscle memory take over. Aiming would take too long, there’s no time to aim, just to let the ingrained lessons of countless target practices and shootouts take over.

It doesn’t take me a second before I put a single bullet between his eyes.