Misha had the grace to look stricken. “Riley. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to drag you into this,” he said, and Riley believed him. Had believed him even when he hadn’t given Misha the time to say the actual words. Misha stood up, took a step toward Riley, his eyes wide and pained. “Why did you have to come in?”

Riley opened his mouth to answer, but he was distracted by the crimson stars blooming on Misha’s shirt, right over the tattoos on his shoulders, and the outline of a skull forming on his chest. Blood dripped from Misha’s outstretched hands, a pattern of splatters on the floor sprayed across the polished wood in a thick red line. Riley followed it with his eyes, realized he stood barefoot in a growing puddle of blood himself.

He gasped in surprise and because the air was suddenly punched out of his lungs, and stared down at the ragged hole in his chest. His shirt was in tatters around it, bits and pieces of cotton punched into his flesh. A slow, steady stream of bright scarlet was soaking his clothes, made them stick to his skin. Thick gore was pulsing from the exit wound between his shoulder blades, warm and silky, fat globs of it sliding out of him and down, down, down. It felt like a hand stroking his back. Soothing him, consoling him, killing him slowly. It stole what little remained of his breath. His ruptured heart struggled to keep going, contracted in painful spasms that pumped more blood out of his dying body.

Riley looked up, saw Andrej standing there with his gun still raised and pointed. A tendril of smoke rose from the barrel like a movie he-did-it.

Andrej’s usually friendly face was expressionless, cold as marble. He didn’t talk. He tucked his gun back into its holster, laid a hand on Misha’s shoulder, and pulled Misha away.

“Misha,” Riley breathed, but no sound passed his lips. “Misha,” he tried again, no voice left, just the overwhelming, metallic taste of blood.

Misha didn’t turn around.

“This is not what happened,” McClane said from beside Riley.

Riley blinked and McClane was in front of him, blocking Riley’s view of Misha leaving. He looked a hell of a lot like a healthy, idealized version of Riley with silver eyes and a deep frown on his face.

“This didn’t happen,” he repeated and then he reached out a hand and slapped Riley’s forehead—

—and with a gasp, Riley woke up.

RILEY jerked up in bed, one hand reaching instinctively for the wound he’d suffered in his dream. The skin was intact, his heart pounding but healthy.

He groaned and fell back against his pillow. God, he hated nightmares.

Hated them with a passion.

What the fuck was that? McClane demanded, and it was a testament to how much Riley had become used to his passenger that he barely even twitched at the loud voice in his head.