The bullet missed his leg by no less than four inches.

Sander stared at Chippy with little humor and a lot of fury. More for the fright he’d given Mattias and his family rather than the purposefully missed shot. He hadn’t been able to say anything else during the follow-up phone call either, thanks to the gun being pointed directly at his face.

Chippy had meant to miss the first time. He wouldn’t miss again.

“Really? Macor?” Sander said the moment the call was over. Already he was guessing how Mattias and Leander would handle the situation; he knew they would not risk his life by disobeying the captor’s order to have Elias delivered to Macor, which probably meant they would plot some sort of ambush or use Elias as a lure. Sander wasn’t keen on serving his injured son up as bait, yet he felt certain Mattias and Leander would do something, and that made the most sense. He also knew they were probably still trying to find his current location, which would negate any confrontation at Macor if they were successful.

“You didn’t mind using Macor when it suited you,” Chippy said, obviously referring to Paavo.

“For a much better purpose than you’re using it now. But I’ll leave your mistakes up to you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though, when you find yourself on the wrong end of a gun.”

“And just how is using Macor a mistake?”

Sander declined to answer. He could have told the men that the clearing directly around the ruin was not to their advantage, or that it would make for easy picking should Mattias and Leander set up snipers. It’s what he would do under those circumstances, and he and Mattias had gone on enough missions together for Sander to know how his brother would react.

Either way, his captors would not be coming out on top of that situation.

The real question was whether the men planned to kill him before going to retrieve Elias, or after. Death was inevitable, a foregone conclusion. Latvala could not be successfully overtaken without every heir falling prey to assassination.

Not that he planned to make it easy for the men to take his life. He was even then attempting to loosen the bindings on his wrists and watching for an opening.

“Humor me,” the man said. He gestured with his gun as if that might encourage Sander to speak.

“Figure it out for yourself,” Sander replied. It was all he was willing to say.

“Would you rather I force it from you? You don’t really need a kneecap, you know.”

“But then you’d risk me bleeding out, and I don’t think you’re ready to kill me just yet.”

“What makes you think so?”

“You would have done it already. You need me for leverage and you know it. Even if you manage to get your hands on Elias—which won’t happen, but let’s be hypothetical for a moment—you still have to take out Emily, Erick, and Eliana. And what about Mattias and his children? The line of succession does not end with me and mine.”

Chippy threw his head back and laughed.

Sander waited the bastard out.

“Do you really think that Latvala will withstand even one heir removed from the throne, much less three? Let me answer for you: no, it will not,” the man said when he’d recovered from his fit. “Your death alone will rock the country to its core. You know it, you just won’t admit it. The people have loved you for years, Prince Dare, but they will abandon Emily, Erick, Eliana, Mattias, and anyone else who comes behind faster than you can blink. They’ll look for someone stable, a larger, more powerful nation to take over and absorb Latvala into the fold.”

“And I suppose you have the same plans for Imatra and Somero, among others,” Sander said.

“We do not. We are not of those countries. However, I have no doubt that a few good citizens have taken up the cause and are waiting for the right time to strike. Which will be soon, after the news of your death hits the media. You and Elias first, then the rest as we can get them.”

A muscle pulsed in Sander’s jaw. Direct threats to his children had never gone over well, especially when he was sitting across from the bastard issuing the threats. He thought he had more insight into what was going on, however, and he allowed that to distract him from the need to bash Chippy’s face in.

A coup attempt was happening in Latvala, with other countries to follow, all of which would apparently be swept under Russia’s wings should the traitors have their way. The men involved in such a ruse had already thrown their lot in with Russia, had decided that for the coming global war their only means of survival was with the larger nation. These men were not Russian citizens, not infiltrators to the country. They were Latvalan born and raised, ready to throw their lot in with a new head of state.

“Good luck with that,” Sander said.

“Put him under while we’re gone,” the man said to one of his compatriots, and turned to depart the barn.

Sander bristled. He did not want to be unconscious and struggled harder against the ropes on his wrists.

One member of the group, apparently the one staying behind, approached a small table and removed a syringe from a tray on the top.

Despite his struggles, he could do nothing as the man approached and stuck him high in the arm, sending him reeling into blackness once more.

“Did you give him enough?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he’s supposed to groan like that if he’s totally out.”

“Maybe we should stick him again.”

“That was the last syringe.”

“There are more in the house, aren’t there?”

“Look. Did you see him move?”

Silence.

“No. He’s out. You’re seeing things.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It was the shadows. I’m staring right at him and I see nothing.”

“I’m telling you, he moved.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago and he hasn’t budged since then. Settle down.”

“Check his wrists. I don’t trust him.”

Silence.

A shuffle of feet.

“His wrists are bound.”

“You’re ten feet away. How can you be sure?”

“Are you always this paranoid? He’s not awake, the ropes are secure. Go monitor the grounds if you can’t shut up.”

Yes, shut up, Sander thought. He was groggy. Barely able to remain conscious. The argument floated in and out of his head, as if he was moving closer and farther away at the same time.

“We’re supposed to remain, both of us.”

“I can handle him if he wakes up.”

“It’s against orders.”

Silence again.

Sander did not open his eyes, did not move a muscle. His head had lolled to the side at some point and his body was lax in the chair. A metal chair this time, rather than a rickety wooden one. He had no idea how much time had passed or whether the meeting at Macor had taken place. He only knew his wrists and feet were bound again and that there were two guards inside the barn with him.

Not an insurmountable hurdle if he could just get free and rise above the effects of the drugs.

A phone chimed.

“Yes?”

Silence.

Sander strained to hear.

“Understood.”

A shuffle of feet preceded the creak of a door. Sander couldn’t tell if one or both men had stepped outside. He worked at the rope, relieved to find it loose from his earlier attempts to get free before he’d been stabbed with a needle.

Wood clattered against wood from the outside of the barn.

At first Sander couldn’t understand what he’d heard. He tried harder to clear the drugged haze from his mind. Something about the sound was vaguely familiar. It set off inner alarm bells, but he wasn’t sure why.

More clattering and a splash.

What was that?

The rope at his wrists, while loose, was still bound too tight for him to squeeze a hand out.

Another splash, this time from a different angle.

He frowned, frustrated at his inability to think straight.

A moment later he smelled smoke.

As fast as a strike of lightning, everything fell into place: they meant to burn him alive.

An orange glow began to penetrate the barn wall to his left. Cracks and snaps filled the air, an indication the wood was catching like kindling. The decaying barn wouldn’t last an hour. Not with all the bales of hay scattered around that would act as accelerants.

Another spot of red appeared on the opposite wall. The men were circling the structure and lighting fires as they went.

Smoke began to snake its way through the interior, a sinister killer in its own right. If he had a choice in the matter, he’d rather go down by smoke inhalation than to burn to death in a chair. He wasn’t ready to succumb to death, however, and breathed what little fresh air was left while he sawed his wrists harder against the ropes.

Come on, come on.

With a sudden whoosh of flames and a roar of fire, the entire left wall of the barn went up. Sander coughed as the smoke thickened and spread. It was impossible to breathe without filling his lungs.

The right wall caught.

Flames raced from the ground to the ceiling.

Heat radiated inward in waves like a lava flow. Sweat broke out on his brow.

He fought harder with the ropes, pinching his eyes closed against the sting of smoke.

The ropes held.

He couldn’t get loose.

A sizzling hiss joined the fray of cracks, snaps, and creaks.

The hay in the loft above had caught fire.

He coughed harder.

It was getting difficult to breathe.

Stay calm. Work the problem. Shed the ropes. There’s still time.

The fire raced closer.

Snap, crack, hiss.