He handed back the gun with a quick caress of his fingers against Riley’s palm. Riley didn’t shy away from his touch. Riley even swayed closer as he tucked the gun into his waistband; just a bit so their shoulders brushed as they walked, as though maybe, just maybe, he still wanted this too. Had missed Misha as badly as Misha had missed him. It was a thin hope. It was plenty. Misha could work with this. He couldn’t change who he was or what he’d done, but he could use it. If anybody had a chance of keeping Riley and his alien squatter safe against these overwhelming odds, it had to be a trained killer, and Misha found he kind of liked the idea of using his skills for protection for a change.

“Do we have an exit?”

“Depends on who’s driving; Anton or Mari.” Andrej glanced at his watch and grimaced. “Shit. Either way, we better hurry.”

The heavy entrance doors swung open with a quiet whisper of well-oiled metal hinges and the three of them spilled out into the late afternoon sunlight only to come to an abrupt stop at the top of the stairs.

Vasiliy hadn’t skimped on the accessories. He stood flanked by Mari and Anton Kulik, half a dozen familiar gunmen behind him. Most of them seemed a little uncomfortable, probably because J.C.’s men were oh-so-casually ambling closer in groups and pairs, their hands on their weapons.

They wouldn’t be fast enough, Misha knew. Not if Vasiliy had already given his orders. Anton was a weapon—Vasiliy’s weapon—and he was wicked fast. Misha stepped in front of Riley instinctively. Not much of a barrier, but it might make Anton hesitate for that one critical second.

Behind him, Riley muttered something that sounded a lot like, “No. No preemptive strikes, either.”

“McClane. See the old guy with the scars on his cheeks?” Misha breathed. “This goes south, he’s the first one you kill.”

Riley made a rough little sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Don’t encourage him.”

Misha chanced a look at Kolya and found him standing to the side with his arms crossed and his legs braced, completely impassive. A pair of mirrored sunglasses made it impossible to say whether Kolya was looking back, but there was something in the set of those wide shoulders and the rigid line of his back that told Misha the man was absolutely furious. Crap.

He didn’t want to fight Kolya too. He would if he had to, but he’d really rather not.