Chapter 42
VAL
The challenge, of course, wasn’t just to bike down it, but to do it faster than the previous record. And like I said, I was trying to impress people.
So I went fucking fast.
I went so fast, in fact, that I broke a pedal, lost control of the bike and then veered to the side, where I hit the back bumper of a parked Honda Civic and went smashing head-first through the back window.
That, to memory, might be the most chaotic moment of my life. The surging, choking feeling of adrenaline pouring into my system. The explosion of pebbled glass shards. The tearing, searing pain and the absence of gravity.
But it’s that fractured moment, when the throbbing silence and frozen figures are shattered by the ding of that fucking electric kettle going off, that puts the bike crash to shame. Because when that chime goes off, hell itself is unleashed, like a cannonball to the fucking chest.
It feels like a thunderclap going off inside my head as the room is filled with exploding gunfire. Cement dust, wood shards and blood spray into the air as one of Gunner's guys and one of the Nikitin guards go flying backward, their bodies ripped apart by the spray of bullets.
Pavel’s number two goes down next, crashing behind one of the grimy couches with blood pouring from his shoulder.
Something heavy suddenly slams into me from the side, sending me crashing across the floor. I grunt into the duct tape over my mouth as my head bounces off the cement. My vision blurs as something heavy lands on top of me.
“Hang on!”
Through the hail of bullets and the explosions of dust and blood and screams, that voice grounds me.
The heavy thing on top of me is Roman.
He grunts, wrenching himself sideways and roaring as he shoves back. He rolls off me, smashing into the floor so hard that the creaky wooden chair he’s tied to snaps. He yanks his arms and legs free, and then he’s scrambling back to me, throwing his body across mine, ripping the tape from my mouth.
“Are you hit?!”
I don't actually know. I can barely think.
I’ve seen plenty of violence in my life. But it's been bullying, street fighting, or the sexual violence that was committed against me when I was a kid.
A full-scale gun fight in an enclosed space has me frozen.
But not Roman.
I stare at him, awestruck, as he whips his head around to scan the ongoing carnage, his eyes ablaze.
“Stay here!”
Right, because I’m going anywhere tied to a chair.
He pushes off me just as a scream rips through the room and the second Nikitin guard throws his hand over the geyser of blood that has erupted from a hole in his neck.
Another shot blasts past him, turning one of the liquor bottles on the improvised bar behind him into shards, liquid spilling onto the floor.
A roar fills the room as he drops his muzzle-hot gun into the pool of high-proof liquor, igniting the whole bar.
My pulse spasms.
Holy fuck.
My gaze shifts, and I stare as Roman crosses the room in a blur. The South African guy who appeared to be in charge is standing over the man who was telling Pavel to back off, leveling his gun at him.
Roman crashes into the South African, sending his shot wild as they both go slamming into the wall.
Another bottle of alcohol explodes like a grenade as the flames reach it, sending liquid fire spraying across the room.
But I’m not watching that.
I’m watching the man I love turn into a demon.
I’ve always loved that Roman’s this big tough guy who becomes a whimpering, subby mess in my hands. Now, I’m watching the opposite happen.
Pure fury twists his shockingly gorgeous face, transforming him into a monster from some dark fantasy. He whirls, slamming his forearm into the other guy’s face, crushing his nose and sending blood everywhere.
Goddammit, I think I’m hard.
I roar a warning when I see the other guy reach for a huge knife on his belt. But before he can get to it, Roman twists the gun out of his other hand. He jams it up into the guy’s chin, slamming his head against the wall before suddenly—
Holy SHIT.
The man’s skull turns to red mist.
Roman barely even blinks. He turns, blood drenching his face and shirt like every psycho killer jerk-off fantasy I’ve ever had.
His eyes blaze as he raises the gun and fires.
The last of the South African guys grunts and doubles over, trying to bring his gun back up, but just as a second bottle of alcohol explodes, Roman gets to him.
He grabs the guy by the throat, slams him across one of the café tables, and puts a bullet through his head.
The entire bar goes up with a whooshing roar, erupting into a fireball that sends Roman flying.
“ROMAN!!”
I snarl and kick at the ropes, heedless of the way they cut into my skin. I manage to get an ankle free, but suddenly, he’s there.
“Hang on!!” Roman screams. He’s got a knife in his hand, and he drops to his knees, cutting the ropes around my ankle and my wrists, setting me free.
I don’t give a fuck that the world is literally on fire. I don’t care that all I can smell is smoke and ash and blood and death.
I grab his face, and I fucking kiss him like the world is ending, and I want to taste his fucking moans as I die.
He breaks the kiss way too fast. I glare at him, then I frown at the way his face is paling and his eyes widening as he stares at my chest.
I look down, and the floor drops out beneath me.
Shit, that’s not good.
Blood is blooming across my shirt over my chest. A lot of blood.
That’s…really not good.
Roman doesn’t say anything, just scoops me into his arms.
“Stay with me!” he screams.
I wrap my arms around his neck, wincing when I start to feel the pain in my chest. Roman sprints across the room and crashes through the door into a dank stairwell.
He rushes up the steps, holding me tight.
When we reach a darkened nightclub Roman charges across floor, and suddenly, we're crashing out the front door into the gloom of the street.
Both of us are coughing up smoke as he bolts across the street to an old parking lot and sets me down. My head swims as Roman rips open my shirt.
“Fuck you, stay the fuck with me!” he bellows. He tears off his own shirt and presses it to the sticky, painful wound in my chest.
“It’s just a graze!” he yells, grabbing my hand and pressing it to the shirt. “Keep pressure on it!”
When he stands, I frown. “Where—”
“Stepan is still down there!”
Suddenly, he’s dropping to his knees, cradling my head, kissing me fiercely.
“I love you,” he rasps.
He presses something heavy into my other hand. I look down and blink when I see the gun.
“You know how to use this?”
“I…watch movies?”
Roman smiles grimly. “Be right fucking back.”
Then he’s gone, rushing back across the street and crashing through the front door of the abandoned club. Smoke is billowing out the door as it swings shut behind him, and I can smell the burning from here.
The seconds tick by. My heart thunders against my bloody chest as lethal, horrible dread twists and snakes around my middle, cinching tight.
Don’t die on me, motherfucker.
You don’t get to fucking leave like this, wreckage.
…Yeah, fuck this.
I grunt as I struggle to my feet and start to stagger back across the road. My head is swimming, and goddammit, my chest hurts.
The frosted windows of the club begin to glow.
Smoke is streaming freely from under the door.
Roman.
I force my feet to move faster, stumbling across the street.
And then four things happen.
“YOU!”
I stop cold, my pulse hitching as I see Pavel Nikitin, blood pouring down the side of his head, staggering out from an alley next to the club, the gun in his hand pointed right at me.
His face is twisted with fury as his eyes blaze into mine.
“You little fucking—”
The second thing that happens is the door to the club crashes open, flames and smoke billowing out as a shirtless figure emerges, a second figure draped over his shoulders.
Roman.
That’s when the third and fourth things happen, almost simultaneously.
The gun in Pavel’s hand goes off.
…And Roman hurls himself in front of me.
The world narrows to a single pinpoint. Everything else blinks away. All other thoughts, dreams and hopes leave my consciousness and I watch in slow motion as the man I love grunts, doubles over, and drops motionless to the ground.
I just stare.
I stare as the light dims from my world.
As my heart cracks, splinters, and crumbles to dust inside my chest.
But then, a fifth thing happens.
I’ve been in more fights than I could count. I’ve hurt people badly, but I’ve never killed anyone.
In that moment, though, my reaction is immediate; instinctive.
I raise my hand, pointing the gun at Pavel as he stares at his son.
My finger squeezes the trigger.
Click.
It’s empty. My gun is fucking empty.
Roman’s father’s gaze shifts to me, rage on his face as he raises his gun again.
“Fucking pidoraz—”
A shot erupts into the night with a heavy BANG. But when I flinch and step backward, nothing happens to me.
I don’t collapse. I don’t feel any fresh pain.
I don’t die.
Pavel's gun drops from his hand with a clatter. His face pales, and he looks down in shock at the red blossoming across his shirt.
Then he slumps to his knees, falls to the side, and goes still.
My head whips around, and I see the man Roman just dragged out of the club—Stepan—holding one hand over his blood-soaked opposite shoulder.
…And a smoking gun in the other one.
He spits on the ground before he turns to look at me, then at Roman.
“Val—”
I choke as I drop to my knees, rolling Roman over. He blinks up at me.
Fuck me. He’s fucking alive.
“Stay with me, baby,” I hiss. Fuck my own wound: I pull his shirt away from my chest and press it to the gaping hole halfway down his ribs. “Stay the fuck with me, wreckage!!”
“Val…”
When I turn, Stepan is half-stumbling, half-running to me, waving his arms.
My brow furrows. “What—“
“THE BOMB!” he roars as the windows of the club behind him shatter, flames licking and crawling out of them. “THE BOMB IS STILL IN THE—”
The sound is like a hurricane making landfall inside my fucking head.
Then all I’m aware of is the feel of my arms wrapped around Roman as the very ground beneath us heaves and buckles, before Hell itself yawns wide and belches fire, lifting me clean off my feet and sending me spiraling through the darkness.