28
Peter
Sara is standing by the helipad as we land, her slender figure small and fragile next to Yan’s solid frame. My chest squeezes at the sight, my longing for her painfully sharp, and it’s all I can do not to grab her as soon as our helicopter skids touch the ground. Instead, the first thing I do upon jumping out of the chopper is help Ilya out. The wound where the bullet grazed his skull is no longer bleeding, but he’s still weak from loss of blood and more than a little concussed.
If the banker’s mistress had used something other than a pearl-handled .22 revolver and had better aim, we’d be bringing him home in a body bag.
My overworked shoulder burns and my bruised ribs ache as Ilya leans on me—my bulletproof vest stopped two bullets during our escape—but I don’t complain. I’m
