Chapter 34
I stare at the empty motel room, the note crumpled in my fist. I slam my hand against the wall, leaving a dent in the cheap drywall. Pain radiates up my arm, but I barely feel it.
She's gone. Back to them. Back to him.
I grab my phone, dialing Enzo's number. My thumb hovers over it for a second before I press call. It rings three times before he picks up.
"Calling me will only make things worse, Hayes." His voice is cold, controlled.
"Is she safe?" I demand, ignoring his warning. "Did she make it back okay?"
Silence stretches between us.
"Enzo, I need to know she's alright."
"You've got some fucking nerve," he finally says. "You betray us, steal our sister on her wedding day, and now you're calling me for information?"
"When's the wedding?" I ask, my voice dropping dangerously low.
"You think I'm going to tell you that? So you can what—crash it again? Risk her life one more time?" Enzo's voice rises. "The Russians are still out there, Hayes. Or did you forget that while you were busy fucking my sister?"
I grip the phone tighter. "I would die before I let anything happen to her."
"That can be arranged," Enzo says, but there's something off in his tone. The threat lacks conviction.
"You're not as angry as you should be," I observe. "Why is that, Enzo?"
Another stretch of silence.
"Listen to me carefully," Enzo finally says, his voice quieter now. "If you ever cared about Lu, you'll stay away. Far away. Because if Damiano sees you again, he will kill you. And she'll have to watch."
"She doesn't want this wedding," I say.
"What Lu wants stopped mattering the moment the Volkovs targeted our family," Enzo replies. "We all make sacrifices."
"Tell me when the wedding is," I try again.
"Go back to your life, Hayes. Find another job. Another city. Forget about Lu."
"I can't do that."
"Then you're a dead man." There's resignation in his voice, not anger. "And I won't be able to stop it."
I take a deep breath. "For some damn reason, you're not really angry with me, are you?"
The line goes quiet for so long I think he's hung up.
"What happened to her," Enzo finally says, his voice barely audible, "should never have happened. And what's happening now..." He stops himself. "It doesn't matter. It's done."
"It's not done," I say firmly. "Not while I'm still breathing."
"Then you won't be breathing much longer." He sighs. "Don't call again, Hayes."
The line goes dead.
I toss the phone onto the bed, my mind racing.
I pace the small motel room, trying to think. I need a plan. I need to get to her before?—
A faint scrape outside the door freezes me mid-step.
My body reacts before my mind can process. I dive for my gun on the nightstand. The door crashes open as I roll behind the bed.
Two men burst in, weapons already firing. Bullets tear into the mattress, sending cotton and fabric flying.
I pop up from behind the bed, firing twice. The first shot misses, but the second catches the man in the shoulder. He stumbles backward, his gun discharging into the ceiling.
The second man swings his weapon toward me. I launch myself at him, knocking his arm up as he fires. The bullet shatters the mirror above the dresser. I slam my forehead into his nose, feeling cartilage crunch beneath the impact.
Blood sprays between us as I wrench his gun away, tossing it across the room. He recovers quickly, driving his knee into my stomach. The air rushes from my lungs, but I manage to block his follow-up punch.
The first man is struggling to his feet, his right arm hanging useless at his side.
The other lands a solid punch to my jaw. Stars explode in my vision, but I counter with an uppercut that snaps his head back. He staggers, giving me the opening I need. I grab his shoulders and drive my knee into his groin. As he doubles over, I bring my elbow down hard on the back of his neck.
He collapses to the floor, unconscious.
The first man has managed to retrieve his weapon with his left hand. His aim is shaky, but at this range, he doesn't need to be accurate.
"Don't move," he growls, blood soaking his jacket.
I stare down the barrel of his gun, my mind racing through options. The man's accent hits me. Not Italian.
"You're not Damiano's," I say, watching his eyes narrow.
"Volkov sends his regards," he spits, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Russians. Not Damiano's men.
My brain shifts into tactical mode. I need one alive for questioning—this one won't make it with that shoulder wound. Blood's pumping too fast. But I need him talking before he bleeds out.
"How did you find me?" I demand, keeping my voice steady despite the gun aimed at my chest.
He smirks, the weapon wavering slightly in his weakening grip. "We have eyes everywhere."
I need to keep this one talking. The unconscious man on the floor is my ticket to solid intel.
"You're dying," I tell him matter-of-factly. "But your friend doesn't have to. Tell me what Volkov's planning."
He laughs, a wet, gurgling sound. "You think I care? We are soldiers. We die for the cause."
His finger tightens on the trigger. I have seconds, not minutes.
I feint left, then dive right as he fires. The bullet grazes my arm, burning like fire. I roll across the floor, coming up with my backup piece from my ankle holster.
Two shots. Center mass.
He crumples, dead before he hits the ground.
"Fuck," I mutter, pressing my hand against my bleeding arm.
I kick the unconscious Russian's gun further away, then check his pulse. Strong and steady. Good.
I grab a sheet from the bed, tearing it into strips. I bind my arm quickly, then use the rest to secure the unconscious man's hands and feet. I pat him down, finding a knife, a second gun, and a phone.
The phone could be useful. I pocket it, then drag the man into the bathroom. I prop him against the tub and splash cold water on his face.
He comes to slowly, blinking in confusion before his eyes focus on me.
"Your friend is dead," I tell him, pressing my gun under his chin. "You've got one chance to live. Tell me everything about Volkov's plan."
He spits at me, but there's fear in his eyes now.
"I can make this quick or very, very slow," I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Your choice."
I press the barrel harder against his throat, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.
"I'm not going to ask again." My voice is ice cold. "What's Volkov planning?"
He glares at me, defiance flashing in his eyes despite the fear. "You think I fear death? We are trained for this."
I pull the gun away and slam the butt of it across his face. Blood sprays from his split lip.
"Death would be merciful compared to what I'm capable of." I grab his hand, pressing my thumb into the nerve between his thumb and forefinger. He winces but doesn't cry out.
"You Americans," he spits blood onto the tile floor. "So soft with your questions."
I drag him by his collar to the sink and force his head under the faucet. Turning on the cold water, I hold him there until his struggles weaken, then pull him back up, gasping.
"The Volkovs," I demand. "What are they planning?"
He coughs, water dripping from his hair and face. "Why should I tell you anything? I am a dead man either way."
I reach into my pocket and pull out his phone. "Let's see what we have here." I scroll through it, finding nothing useful until I open his photos. "Who's this?" I turn the screen toward him, showing a picture of a young woman with a small boy.
His eyes widen slightly before he can control his reaction.
"Your wife? Son?" I ask, watching his face carefully. "In Moscow, I'm guessing?"
"Leave them out of this," he growls.
I nod slowly. "I could. Or I could send this picture to some contacts I have in Russia. Former Spetsnaz who owe me favors. They'd find your family easily."
"You wouldn't," he says, but uncertainty creeps into his voice.
I grab a towel and wrap it around his hand, leaving just his pinky finger exposed. I take out my knife.
"Last chance before I start sending pieces of you and your family's to Volkov. What is he planning?"
He stares at me, calculating his options. I press the knife against his finger.
"Tomorrow," he finally says. "Your little slut is going to get killed in her precious white wedding dress."
My blood runs cold, but I keep my face expressionless. "Where? What time?"
He laughs, a harsh sound that echoes off the bathroom tiles. "You think I’ll tell you that? I'm already dead."
I put the knife away and reach for the electrical cord I'd ripped from the lamp earlier while dragging him in the toilet. I wrap it around his neck, pulling it just tight enough to restrict his breathing without cutting it off completely.
"You know what's worse than death?" I whisper in his ear. "Living with the knowledge that you could have saved your family but didn't."
I take his phone again, making a show of typing a message. "I'm sending your family's photo to my contact in Moscow. Right now."
Panic flashes in his eyes. "Stop!"
"Tell me where and when," I demand, tightening the cord slightly.
"I don't know the exact time," he gasps. "But noon. Wedding at noon."
"Where?"
He hesitates. I press my thumb on the send button.