Jhene
FOUR
The voices are getting closer.
I grab the knife from under my pillow on the cot then inch toward the door. My footsteps are silent on the cold concrete floor, but my heart hammers so loudly I wonder if they can hear it from the front of the pub. I force myself to breathe slowly, creeping closer for a look.
The knife’s nothing fancy, but it was one of several I found in the pub kitchen that I figured Tom wouldn’t notice was missing nor care very much that it was.
Through the crack in the door, a shadow moves in the hallway. One of them passes under the faint glow of the emergency exit sign, his silhouette familiar—broad shoulders, thick neck, and skin so pale it’s almost translucent in the dark.
One of Fedorov’s soldiers.
They really have come looking for me.
My stomach drops as the reality of the situation sinks in. I was stupid to think I could hide in a place as obvious as an Irish pub. Stupid to think Fedorov would ever let me go that easily…
He always comes to collect. That’s the one thing I know for certain about the man who’s controlled my life for nearly a decade.
The soldier in the hall mutters in Russian to the others he’s here with. They laugh and answer him with more cruel Russian words that set my nerves on edge.
In the years I’ve been held captive by the Bratva, I’ve learned a few words here and there. But I never truly understand them when they’re like this—when they’re talking fast among themselves.
From what I can tell, there’s three of them. All huge and burly.
Against only one of me armed with a dull knife I stole from my boss’s kitchen.
Great odds.
The heavy footsteps stop right outside the stockroom door, and I hold my breath as the seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity.
Then the door flies open.
The first man rushes at me like a bullet train, his meaty hands reaching for my throat. I scream as I slash at him with the knife. The blade slices into his flesh.
He howls in pain, clutching his arm where blood seeps through his fingers.
“Suka!” he spits at me.
But I’ve already shoved past him, desperate for an exit.
I might be small, but I am pretty fast.
It was something that always frustrated Eva when we were girls and would play tag at the park. She could never catch me, no matter how hard she tried.
I make it out into the hall, unfortunately with the Russian soldier I’ve stabbed only half a step behind me. I can’t go right to make it to the kitchen or back exit, which only leaves me with the restroom or the main floor.
The same pub restroom with only a tiny square window even a cat would probably struggle to fit through.
Shit!
I scramble down the hall toward the main floor, hoping and praying I’ll somehow be able to stab my way out of this confrontation.
The hope’s short-lived—the soldier behind me locks his thick arms around my waist and rips me off my feet.
“Argh!” I scream as he slams me against the wall.
But his equilibrium’s so off we both crash into the wall and knock over a stack of liquor crates nearby. Bottles shatter on impact, spraying glass and alcohol over the floor.
I twist free of his grip and stumble out onto the main bar floor.
…where the other two are waiting for me.
Right. Because I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
The two on the main floor are ready to accost me.
The one on the left grabs my wrist before I can even raise the knife to slash at him. His fingers squeeze down on the delicate bone hard enough it’s instant agony. It’s beyond my free will to keep holding onto the knife.
It involuntarily drops from my fingers and clatters onto the floor. A cry of pain tears out of my throat as my wrist throbs and he yanks me toward him.
So I do the only thing I can think of and spit directly in his face.
His reaction is just as instantaneous and instinctual.
He slaps the fuck out of me—his massive hand comes crashing down back side first.
My head snaps to the side, and I’m sent staggering into a table, totally out of control of my own body.
He’s backhanded me so hard my glasses fly off somewhere into the darkness, though it doesn’t even matter in this moment.
Thousands of tiny dots float before my eyes.
Everything becomes a dark blur except for the tiny bright dots.
I’m so dizzy, blinded and in pain, trying to recover, I smash into a chair next to us and collapse to the floor.
The men laugh at me. Their thick grunts echo in my ears as I swim in darkness.
It’s not the first time. It sadly probably won’t be the last either.
I’m so fucking helpless it brings tears to my eyes—tears of frustration, tears of rage.
My blood boils thinking about what they’ve put me and Eva through.
How they never stop; how their awful treatment just keeps going and going.
“Did you really think you could escape Fedorov?” one of them sneers, his accent thick and mocking. “He always comes to collect, little girl. Always.”
I try to push myself up, but my arms are shaking and my vision is swimming. Warm liquid trickles down my cheek. I can’t tell whether it’s blood or tears.
The man whose arm I slashed looms over me, his face a blur of indistinct features. “What do you have to say for yourself, you little bitch?”
I open my mouth to tell him exactly what he can do with himself—to tell him to fuck off like I’ve done before—even if it means I’ll be severely punished for it.
I’m cut off before I can get the words out.
“I say you have some fucking balls,” comes a gritty fourth voice. “Why don’t you fight somebody your own size?”
All three men freeze, and even without my glasses I recognize the massive silhouette filling the doorway.
The brutish boxer and Irish mob enforcer I spent the night waiting on.
Killian Rourke has turned up in the nick of time; the last person I’d expect to show up to save me.
The three Russian men exchange looks as if befuddled by his sudden appearance. They were obviously expecting to take me without much of a struggle.
“I know you,” one of them grunts. “You’re the Callahan’s boneman.”
“Glad my reputation precedes me.” Killian steps further into the pub, his massive frame moving with a casual confidence that borders on arrogance. “Now that we’ve got introductions out of the way, how about you tell me what the fuck you’re doing in my pub?”
“This is Irish turf, yes,” the man concedes. “But she... she is ours. We take her and go. No trouble for you.”
“That’s where we’ve got a problem.” Killian rolls his shoulders like he’s preparing for a sparring match at his boxing gym.
“She stays. You go. Either walk out of here with your tails between your legs like the cowards you are, or face me and get thrown out on your asses once I beat your faces in. Your choice.”
Seconds pass where nobody moves.
Then the man whose arm I slashed snarls something in Russian. A command for the other two to abide by.
They rush at Killian as a unit.
I still can’t see much without my glasses. The men appear mostly as dark shapes colliding in the middle of the bar. My hands feel around the floor blindly ’til my fingers brush against the familiar frame of my glasses.
I shove them onto my face in time to see the men launching themselves at Killian.
Three against one.
The odds should be stacked against him, but Killian doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest. If anything, he looks almost bored.
This is just another Tuesday night for him.
Considering his reputation… it probably is.
He easily ducks the first guy’s punch, obviously anticipating it long before thrown.
Then he’s driving an uppercut into the second guy’s jaw, which sends him staggering backward.
The third one tries to grab Killian from behind, but he’s moving so fast and instinctually that guy doesn’t stand a chance either.
Killian snags him by the back of his collar and slams his face into the edge of the bar counter with a violent thud. He drops to the floor, completely unconscious before he ever hits it.
The first Russian has recovered and comes at him again, fists furiously swinging. Once again Killian’s a step ahead. He sidesteps the clumsy attack and delivers a brutal hook to his temple that drops him like a sack of potatoes.
Two down, one to go.
I’ve never seen anything like it—the way his fists fly so fast they’re almost a blur. How he moves his large body so skillfully, footwork impressive as he ducks, jabs, and blocks all at once.
It’s almost superhuman.
I’ve seen him fight on TV like most people have, but seeing it live is a whole other level.
As he sends another Russian crashing to the floor, the guy he delivered the uppercut to is ready to try his luck again. He comes up from behind with teeth gritted and his hand pulling a switchblade from his pocket.
I’m not about to let that happen.
It’s not really a conscious thought I make. More so out of pure spite and fury from how they’ve hurt me and Eva for years.
I launch myself at the Russian’s back like a spider monkey, wrapping my arms around his neck and clinging on for dear life. I’m from Brooklyn, born and raised, and I’m not about to let these assholes get away with attacking me.
The guy barely stumbles under my weight before reaching back and grabbing a fistful of my hair. Pain explodes across my scalp as he yanks me off him and throws me to the ground, sending me skidding across the pub floor.
But I bought Killian enough time to realize the sneak attack in the works.
He roars and rushes at the last Russian soldier standing, fists connecting again and again as if the man is no more than a punching bag.
A left hook to the ribs, a right cross to the jaw, and then an uppercut that lifts the guy off his feet and sends him crashing into a table and chairs. He releases a pitiful groan as he lands in a heap.
All three men are down for the count, bruised and beaten on the floor of the Banshee.
Killian doesn’t even look winded. Truthfully, he looks as if he could probably take on three more men and come out with hardly a scratch on him.