23. Joao
23
JOAO
W hat. The. Fuck.
Motioning Stef to stay back, I inch forward just enough to be able to see what’s going on. What I see gives me chills. The partygoers are huddled all to one side, and three masked men dressed in black are standing in front of them, holding machine guns with relaxed ease and looking like they mean business.
They could be here for anybody, starting with the guest of honor, Varek Zaworski himself. So why does a sense of foreboding run through me when I see them?
I scan the club. Apart from the three men corralling the guests, there’s also a guy guarding the front door and one at the fire exit. There’s another exit through the kitchen that might be our way out, but I’m willing to bet there’s a guard there, too. These guys don’t look like amateurs.
Sure enough, the next words out of the leader’s mouth confirm my suspicions. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says in fluent Polish. “We don’t mean you any harm. If you cooperate, nobody will get hurt.”
“You’re here to rob us?” a gray-haired man in an expensive suit demands. “I don’t know who you are, but if you think you’re going to get away with this?—”
“Yes, yes. You’re Fabian Walczyk, the president’s fixer, and you’re going to spare no expense to find us and make us pay.” The leader sounds bored. “Your threats will keep me up at night. However, as a point of clarification, we’re not here to rob you. We’re looking for someone. Please pull out your identification documents. Passports, identity cards, driver’s licenses. Gustaw and Hugo will be checking them.”
Fuck. They’re here for Stefi.
Two guys separate themselves from the cluster. “Come forward, one at a time,” the leader continues. “And please, don’t try anything. Both Hugo and Gustaw are trained hand-to-hand specialists, and I would hate for anyone to get hurt.”
At my side, Stefi’s shoulders tense. “They’re checking ID,” she murmurs. “They’re looking for one of us.”
“They’re looking for you,” I correct. My wife has a leak she needs to plug because this is the second time someone apart from me has been able to predict her movements. “Whoever told you about Zaworski sold you out to these men.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It’s the only explanation.” She starts to argue, and I hold up my hand. “We don’t have time for this discussion right now.”
She nods, a thoughtful look on her face. “If they’re checking ID, they don’t know what I look like. What do you think? Stick to the plan and get out when the smoke bombs blow?”
“Sounds good.” As serious as the situation is, I can’t help but smile. I’ve missed this. Stefi and I weren’t just lovers, and we weren’t just married. We were two pieces of a whole. When we did practice missions together, we were always seamlessly in step. My recklessness was tempered by her caution, her tendency toward over-analysis curbed by my desire to get it done already.
“Kamil, search the washrooms.”
That’s our cue. I round the corner with my hands held above my head, and Stefi follows, a step behind. The leader doesn’t react, just waves us into the crowd. That’s a relief. Stef’s right; these guys, whoever they are, don’t have a picture of her. They’re groping in the dark, trying to find someone who isn’t who they appear to be. Gustaw and Hugo are both holding handheld scanners, and one of them also has a flashlight in his hand, tilting the identity card he’s holding under the light to check for flaws in the hologram.
How good is Stefi’s fake ID? If she gets pulled aside before the smoke bombs have a chance to blow, will it hold up?
I look around the room again. Zaworski looks apoplectic with rage. His party had a no-weapons rule—not even his bodyguards are armed—and I bet he regrets that right now. I have zero fucks to give for him. The bounty hunter has spent a lifetime preying on people weaker than himself, and he’s getting what he deserves.
Standing next to him, looking even angrier, is Borys Kawka. But Zaworski’s brother-in-law isn’t glaring at the gunmen. No, his rage is reserved for the woman next to me. That’s right, asshole. She’s mine. Her lipstick is smudged because of me, and her hair is tousled because my fingers ran through the strands. It’s my name she moaned when she came.
One of the guys is getting closer. I exchange a glance with Stefi. If we have to fight our way out, the odds aren’t great. I have a gun tucked into the small of my back and Stefi has a knife, but we’re no match for a team of at least six, all armed with machine guns. If her ID doesn’t stand up to scrutiny, how do I arrange it so I get taken along with her?
She winks at me. “Relax,” she mouths. “Trust the plan.”
Then the bombs blow.
Chaos erupts immediately. Thick smoke fills the room, and Zaworski’s guests scream in panic. The fire alarms go off, their shrill sirens adding to the confusion. Gunmen forgotten, the crowd stampedes toward the exits, bodies jostling and pushing as they flee down the stairs.
I stick close to my wife. She doesn’t want to go to Venice, and I have no doubt that she’s hoping to get away from me in the confusion. But I’m not going to let that happen again. Especially now. These gunmen are professionals. If they’re mercenaries, they didn’t come cheap. Whoever Stefi’s adversary is, he or she is powerful and well-connected.
Stefi’s scanning the room, looking for Zaworski. I look too and see a familiar figure in a tuxedo push through the crowds in a bid to get out. “He’s almost at the exit,” I tell her.
“I see him.” Stefi sets out determinedly, weaving through the crowd with the grace of a predator, slipping between panicked guests too busy to notice the knife in her hand, and I follow, my senses on high alert. Someone tries to grab her, and I break their wrist before their grip can tighten. They yelp in agony, but the noise is lost among the sirens and the screams.
My little fox catches up with the bounty hunter at the door. With a movement as fluid as water, she slides the knife I just fucked her with between his fifth and sixth ribs on the left side. It’s beautiful to watch, deadly poetry in motion, and I want to applaud. Zaworski crumbles to the ground, and without even breaking stride, she steps over him and joins the people streaming down the stairs.
It’s perfect.
Almost.
There’s only one problem. She—we—didn’t account for Borys Kawka. The man hasn’t been able to take his eyes off my wife all evening, and even though everyone’s fleeing for their lives, he’s still watching her.
He’s only a step behind Zaworski, in perfect position to see the glint of Stefi’s knife.
In perfect position to see the blade slice into his brother-in-law’s chest.
For a moment, he can’t process what he’s seeing. Varek falls to the ground, clutching his heart, his breath coming in shallow gasps, blood bubbling from his mouth, and finally, Kawka’s brain catches up with his eyes.
“You stabbed him!” he roars in fury. “You fucking stabbed him.”
His voice is loud enough to penetrate the noise of the fire alarm, loud enough that one of the gunmen hears his accusation, looks up, and determinedly starts pushing his way toward Stefi.
Kawka isn’t done. “You fucking bitch,” he spits out, grabbing my wife by the arm. “You killed Varek.”
The moment he touches her, I snap. This fucker had his hands all over my wife, and it’s taken all of my self-control not to break every bone in his body. I finally get what Leo was thinking when he broke Simon Groff’s wrists last month. I step up and let my fist swing, and it makes contact with Kawka’s face with a deeply satisfying crunch.
He goes down.
But the mercenary gunman is still making his way toward us, and even worse, he’s raising his weapon.
“Come on,” I say tersely to Stefi, grabbing her hand. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”