Chapter 39
Brody
“Fuck Declan!”
The words burst out on the end of a laugh. I think I’ve waited my entire life to say them. And even though no one witnesses my revelation, the weight rises off my shoulders all the same.
I left Declan and Connor in the blue honeymoon suite hours ago, hopefully wallowing in my absence. But none of that matters anymore because I’m free of them.
I did worry that Declan might have me followed and attacked, but I kept my head on a swivel and haven’t spotted a soul. At least he granted me that much courtesy, I suppose.
I imagine he and Connor are well on their way back to California. Good riddance. I’ve got business and don’t need them interfering anyway.
I’m fine on my own. At least until I get Trinitty back.
Trinity.
She’s all I can think about. I never should have let her leave last night.
Our fight went off the rails. I was so pissed at her snooping, at the accusation in her tone, in those beautiful green eyes.
With a clearer head, I realize she never intended to spy and wasn’t doing anything other than protecting herself.
She wasn’t wrong to be upset. I did plan to betray her, even if the more time I spent with her, the more I questioned what I truly wanted out of life.
As soon as we’re safe, I’ll make amends. First, though, I need to kill some more Russians.
I spent the morning and afternoon prepping. Gathering weapons. Mapping out my advantage.
One of the worst men I know has Trinity in his clutches, so I’m anticipating a mess.
More like a bloodbath, probably.
I chose a defunct old warehouse for our meetup. The building hovers on the edge of the city, far from the crowds and festivities. The perfect spot for a fight.
No witnesses or interruptions.
I knew Grigori would agree, and I required a head start to prepare.
By the time I called the Russian asshole, I’d already arrived to transform this place into my playground.
Another ten-on-one brawl means I need to exploit every possible advantage. I don’t doubt my ability to handle his men, even with my busted leg, but with Trinity in the mix…
Her safety is my priority.
I walk the dusty floor for the dozenth time, once again checking my weapon placement. A gun here, a knife there, a grenade up a jester’s ass.
The warehouse serves as a graveyard for Mardi Gras floats, greens and purples and yellows all merging into fifty shades of dirt. Chicken wire covered in papier-maché and foam bends into strange, monstrous shapes in the gloom.
The old, dry paper reminds me of a library. My mother read a book to me every night before bed, and the scent threatens to swamp me with memories.
But I can’t linger in those thoughts. No time.
The scrape of metal along the concrete draws my attention. That’s the door due west.
My guests have arrived.
Two sets of footsteps echo first—I’d guess Grigori and Andrei, if he managed to get his ass into fighting shape—followed by too many to count as they enter the warehouse.
The noise covers my movements as I climb up into the open mouth of a giant alligator. The reptile is halfway out of a truck bed, waiting for its next meal. The perch in its mouth provides a perfect blind spot where I can watch my prey waltz into my trap.
Grigori reaches the center of the warehouse, his pistol at his side, his eyes sharp as they peer through the haze.
Predictably, Andrei trails at his heels, loyal as a yappy lapdog.
A handful of Grigori’s men follow behind them, with Trinity in tow.
She’s a lone unarmed woman among a half dozen armed and dangerous killers, and they’re flanking her like she’s a war criminal. The skin of her upper arm hollows beneath a goon’s bruising grip.
I stifle a growl and memorize the fucker’s face.
She’s breathing and in one piece. Despite the moist, gray air hanging heavy between us, those coppery waves shimmer and bounce with every step. I remember the way those tresses brushed against my cheek, the softness of them tangled in my fingers.
Adrenaline floods my system at the sight of her.
Grigori studies his surroundings, squinting into the dim lighting. The sun is sinking on the far side of the warehouse where the windows are thin and high. The hanging lamps sit thirty feet up, with fifteen feet of stale dust suspended between them and the floats below.
His visibility sucks, and he doesn’t like that. From the way his eyes move, I can tell he’s not even considering the potential of me hiding inside a float.
It’s admittedly an imbecilic plan. These things are basically paper and glue.
If I’m spotted, I’m dead.
Six more men file in, for a total of twelve. More than I would like.
Andrei finds a folding chair shoved along the wall and drags it to the center of the room with an awful screech of metal on concrete. He shoves it open and orders Trinity to sit.
Her body language might be a mystery to these Russians, but I read her loud and clear.
She’s acting compliant, but she’s pissed. Patiently waiting for an opportunity to strike. Though she’s careful about it, she’s watching. Scanning.
The only person among a dozen trained killers who’s peering into the floats.
Over here, Trinity! I don’t wave, but the impulse is damn tempting.
Grigori and two guards surround her. Two more post up near the west door to wait for my arrival. The rest, including Andrei, spread out among the floats, weaving through the maze while searching around the room and under the trailers.
Each man carries a Makarov, at minimum. Eight-rounds, semi-automatic. Lucky for me, I’ve got connections in nearly every inch of the country thanks to my former relationship with the Port Kings. Grant, a good Southern boy working at a local defense company, hooked me up.
Andrei strides back over to the men guarding Trinity. He and Grigori speak in quick, quiet Russian.
With his bandaged arm and puffy, purple face, Andrei’s the loose cannon here. He wants a war. His eyes contain a lifetime’s worth of bottled-up rage, and I can already tell he has no intention of playing fair.
Andrei’s already lost two battles against me in a short span of time. That would be bad enough, but now that I know the truth—that Andrei is Grigori’s son—I realize the sting must smart that much worse.
The two of us mirror each other. Bastard sons in overdrive who will kill ourselves to please fathers who’ll never give us our due credit.
I get it, pal. Declan had me wound tight too. But no more.
This is my edge. Andrei’s rage is my stability.
Last time, he had the advantage. This time, I have no doubt who will come out on top.
I study them, their body language, the platoon they’ve brought along for the ride. They never planned to trade Trinity for the drive. They’ll get what they want and then murder us both.
Whatever Grigori says to Andrei ruffles the younger man’s feathers. At his next words, directed at Trinity, anger surges through me.
“Yobanaya suka!” Andrei points at Trinity, then swipes an angry hand through the air as they continue to argue.
I don’t have to speak Russian to understand the derogatory term.
Andrei shakes his head, spins, and marches toward Trinity’s chair.
He pulls back a hand and slaps her. Her head snaps to the side, her cheek already bright red with his handprint. Copper curls fly around her face, covering her expression.
I clench my hands into fists, red bleeding into my vision.
You motherfucker.
Still, I maintain my position. He only did that in the hopes of luring me out of hiding. And Trinity knows it too.
She’s silent. Stoic. She lifts her head and stares straight ahead, no emotion on her face.
That’s my girl. Patient and strong.
Andrei thinks he can manipulate me, but too bad for him. My plan’s already in motion.
Though he’ll pay for that slap before the end of the day.
I secure the gas mask on my face and check the fit. Extracting four tear gas grenades from the backpack at my side—thank you, Grant—I toss them from the alligator’s mouth, where they land with a clatter at the feet of the men near Trinity.
Game on.
The grenades explode, one after the other, as her captors dive like dolphins in synchronicity to avoid the smoke.
Trinity drops and rolls away, disappearing under a float.
Based on the togas and the thunderbolt in one man’s hand, the theme is half-destroyed Greek gods.
Or maybe the king of gods and his harem.
Whoever they are, they’re giving Trinity plenty of cover from the Russians and the gas, with the thick velvet curtain hanging beneath the float like a bed skirt.
I sling the bag over my shoulders, ready two Glocks in my hands, and hop out of the alligator.
As soon as my feet touch the ground, all hell breaks loose.
Opaque orange clouds of pepper spray spew into the air from the smoke bombs, creeping through the warehouse like tentacles.
The muscle guarding Trinity, plus four more of the seekers, collapse right off the bat. They go down choking, coughing, and spitting as they crawl toward the exit.
Six down. Six to go.
I’m almost disappointed. Twelve adversaries would’ve been a hell of a fight.
While the Russians scatter and struggle, I use the chaos for cover and slide under the float with Zeus and Friends.
Trinity whirls around with a piece of scrap metal clenched in her hands, ready to wallop me upside the head.
“Whoa there!”
She gasps, the weapon clattering to the cement. “Brody!” She scoots across the space between us to throw her arms around my neck.
We’re on our knees and need to stoop to keep from hitting our heads against the underside of the trailer, but I don’t care.
I clutch her to my chest. “Trinity…” I press my masked face against her hair. “I’m going to get us out of here. Just give me a minute, okay?” Reluctantly, I pull away and yank the second gas mask from my bag. “Put this on, nice and tight. You need to stay under here until I come back for you.”
Once the mask is secured around her face, I pass her one of my guns.
Those green eyes, clear and bright even through the goggles of the mask, widen.
“Take it. And don’t move.” There’s no time to argue.
I only linger long enough for her to nod and grip the gun before I roll out into the fray. Now at the rear of the float, I climb up and crouch behind the toga fabric to get a better sense of the playing field.
Despite the pepper spray so close to his nose and eyes, Grigori remains standing. Guys like him don’t live this long without possessing backbones of steel. He paces outside the saffron cloud, his dark eyes darting through the warehouse like a caged wolf.
Hunting for Trinity. Not me.
My lip curls. I can’t let him find her.
I hop down from the float, creep through the fog, and burst from the cloud to nail the fucker in the temple with the butt of my gun.
He goes down with a grunt, slumping in an unconscious heap.
But two of the men who managed to escape the gas are too close for me to make good use of Grigori’s incapacitation. One jumps me from behind, grabbing my arms to keep my gun from being an issue. The second approaches from the front, raises his Makarov, and fires.
The bullet hits dead center of my chest, knocking the air from my lungs.
Wheezing, I stumble, fire radiating from my sternum.
Hurts like a bitch, but thanks to a bulletproof vest, I’m not dead. I can handle the pain.
My mask means the air returns a little slower, but I manage to catch my breath just as the man grappling my arms starts to choke on the remaining gas.
The other one raises his gun to fire again.
Two on one, huh? Child’s play.
I twirl the man dancing with me to use as a shield.
His friend’s bullet punctures his back, probably shredding his lungs. His body jerks against my shoulder.
Gurgling a final gasp, he collapses to the floor, tugging on my arms before slumping.
I spin in a roundhouse kick, knocking the gun from the other stunned Russian’s hand. If he’s too shocked by friendly fire to control himself, he shouldn’t be here.
He pivots and sprints for the exit. My single shot to the back of his head drops him like a sack of potatoes.
That leaves four, unless the gas starts wearing off.
One man kneels by Grigori, trying to shake him back to consciousness. The other door guard probably fled the second the fun began. No Andrei in sight. Shit.
I roll back under the Greek float. Everything I’m fighting for is right here, and I can’t continue on without laying eyes on her.
Trinity breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling like cresting waves beneath her t-shirt. She appears unhurt otherwise, and cool relief rushes through my blood.
Even with the dark plastic covering her face, she’s so beautiful. I just want to kiss her.
“Is it safe?” She shifts closer, her voice tinny and muffled through the gas mask.
“Not yet. Just had to get a look at you.” Movement behind her shoulder draws my eye. “Duck.”
“What?”
I grab her arm and tug her forward against my chest.
When she’s clear, I lift my gun and fire right into the face of a Russian crouching on the far side of the float.
Guess the gas is wearing off. Damn.
Trinity flinches against my chest. A little chunk of my heart crumbles into my stomach. I hate that she’s stuck in this nightmare because of my own idiocy.
“Trinity.” I hold her tighter against my chest as another pair of feet appears where the first guy’s body dropped. “I didn’t mean to let you down. I fucked up so badly.”
“Brody—”
The second kneeling man’s face and gun barrel pop under the curtain hiding us. I react on instinct, shooting the jackass between the eyes. Trinity squeaks and attempts to swivel her head around to see what’s happening behind her.
Holding her in place, I try to ensure she hears me through my mask. “I’m an asshole and an idiot, and I need—”
“Brody.” She lifts her head so our eyes meet. “I love you too.”
The air rushes out of me, replaced by a warm, gooey substance that bubbles through my entire body.
Love. She said she loves me.
Fuck these stupid gas masks. I want nothing more than to rip them off and kiss that smart-ass mouth of hers for the rest of my life.
“Trinity…”
She shakes her head. “No time. When you get rid of all these guys trying to kill us, you can grovel some more.”
Beneath the mask, a grin splits my lips.
Anything for the woman I love.