CHAPTER 22
ANDREI P.O.V.
The smoke from the explosion still hangs thick in the air, a toxic fucking cloud smelling of burnt electronics, pulverized concrete, and the hot copper stink of fresh blood.
My ears are ringing a dull, high-pitched whine that I force straight to the back of my mind because right now, distraction is a death sentence.
I step over the tangled bodies of the security guards I just put down, my boots slipping for half a second on a slick puddle of gore before finding purchase.
I don't give a shit about the blood splattered across the cuffs of my ruined shirt, and I sure as hell don't feel any victorious rush. Victory is for guys who get to go home and drink scotch, not guys stuck in a locked-down billionaire funhouse with a target on their backs. My gaze locks onto Arthur Hemlock. The invincible mastermind of this whole purge is huddled in the corner of his reinforced sanctuary, sobbing and hyperventilating like a cornered rat. I wipe a thick smear of wet blood off my cheek with the back of my hand, feeling it streak across my skin and leave a dark, sticky trail that only makes me look more like the demon he’s currently praying to avoid. He’s pathetic.
The room feels entirely too small now, the grand illusion of his wealth completely shattered the second real violence kicked his door in.
"Don't look at them, Arthur. Look at me," I bark, my voice rough from the smoke and adrenaline.
He flinches, his eyes darting frantically from the mangled corpses of his private army back to my face. "Please, I can—I can compensate—"
"Your games are over. Now we play mine," I cut him off, not entertaining a single syllable of his bullshit bargaining. I turn my head slightly, catching movement in my peripheral vision. "Ruby, get up. We aren't done yet."
I step right into Hemlock's space and reach out, fisting my hand deep into the lapels of his bespoke tuxedo.
With a sharp grunt of effort, I haul the smaller man off the floor, his expensive Italian leather shoes scrambling uselessly for traction, and slam him backward against the reinforced steel wall.
A heavy metal desk lamp rattles hard off the edge of his mahogany desk, crashing to the floor and sending crazy, disjointed shadows dancing across the room in the flickering red glow of the emergency lights.
He opens his mouth to negotiate again, to offer me millions, but I twist the fabric of his suit so tight it cuts off his airway.
I lean in so fucking close that our foreheads almost touch, forcing him to inhale the sharp, chemical reek of the gunpowder practically burned into my clothes.
"How much was this suit, Arthur? A hundred thousand? It’s a shroud now," I growl, feeling the pathetic, wet whimpers vibrating in his chest.
"I—money—anything you—"
"Shut up. Every word you say makes me want to pull the trigger," I snap, giving him another hard shake that makes his teeth clack together. The contrast between his soft, pampered existence and the brutal, ugly reality of my world is a goddamn joke, and I find it deeply satisfying to watch him break. "You’re going to walk us out, or you’re going to die in this hole. "
I jam the cold, heavy barrel of the stolen SIG Sauer straight up under his chin, pushing upward with enough force to make his spine arch backward awkwardly.
His eyes bulge out of his skull as his head is forced up, the metal digging hard into the soft flesh of his throat.
His perfectly manicured hands flutter up uselessly, his fingers weakly pawing at my massive wrists, but I don't budge a fucking millimeter.
I click the safety off right next to his ear, the sharp, metallic snap cutting through his pathetic whining and making his knees buckle instantly.
I hold him up entirely by his throat and the barrel of the gun.
"Do you hear that? That’s the sound of your life ending if you stumble," I tell him, my voice completely dead of emotion. "Eyes on the ceiling, Arthur. Keep them there."
He chokes on a sob, a string of spit trailing down his chin. "Yes, God, yes."
"I want to hear you say you understand."
"I understand! I understand, please!"
Off to my left, Ruby doesn't ask for permission to move.
I watch her from the corner of my eye as she crosses the debris-littered floor, her torn, soot-stained white slip hanging off her battered body.
She doesn't cower. She bends down and snatches up a dropped submachine gun from one of the dead guards. She checks the chamber with a sharp, practiced flick of her wrist, a movement she absolutely picked up just from watching me operate over the last few hours. She kicks a jagged piece of broken glass out of her way with her bare foot, her movements entirely predatory and sharp. When she looks up at me, those hyper-vigilant hazel eyes are utterly void of the terror she arrived with. She’s adapted.
The sight of her arming herself with such cold, ruthless efficiency triggers a massive spike of possessive lust right in the center of my chest. She was just a girl pouring coffee a few days ago, and now she looks like she was born for the slaughter.
She isn't a liability I have to drag through this mess; she’s a lethal fucking asset.
"Mag's full. Safety’s off," she says, her voice flat and totally steady.
"Good."
"I’ve got the rear, Andrei. Move him," she orders, stepping into a ready stance that tells me she's not hesitating.
"You stay right on me."
"Don't wait for me. Just go."
I spin Hemlock around roughly, pinning his back flush against my chest so he covers my center mass.
I wrap my left arm like a vice around his throat in a chokehold, keeping the SIG pressed firmly to his right temple with my other hand.
I adjust my grip on his collar, the expensive wool straining and popping a stitch under my brute strength.
I look at Ruby, giving her a sharp jerk of my chin toward the dark, ruined hallway waiting beyond the blown door.
She nods once, dropping instantly into a low, tactical crouch, the barrel of her stolen rifle aimed dead into the shadows.
We haven't practiced a second of this, but the pure instinct to survive has wired us together in a way I’ve never experienced with another human being.
I’ve never trusted a single soul to watch my back without a contract or a blood oath in the Bratva, but right now, I trust this girl with my life.
"On my signal," I say quietly, feeling Hemlock shaking violently against me. "Stay on my hip, Ruby. If I go down, you finish him."
"Understood."
"Ready? Now."
We step out into the corridor. The penthouse level is a completely unrecognizable landscape of modern ruin.
Shattered glass is spread like ice across the plush carpets, expensive art is riddled with bullet holes, and the heavy smell of a localized chemical fire burns the inside of my nose.
I use Hemlock’s body to blindly block the most likely lines of fire from the intersecting hallways, my muscles coiled tight, waiting for the impact of a sniper's round.
Behind me, exactly three paces back, Ruby is my lethal shadow.
Her head is on a swivel, the black polymer barrel of her rifle painting the walls as she clears the blind corners.
Every open doorway is a potential fucking death trap, and my nerves are dialed up to maximum voltage.
My boot crunches down hard on an intact piece of an expensive crystal vase, the shattering sound echoing like a gunshot down the otherwise silent hall.
Hemlock whimpers and tries to stop walking. I yank him forward, my forearm crushing his windpipe just enough to remind him who’s driving. "Pick up your feet, Arthur, or I’ll drag you."
"Clear left!" Ruby calls out, her voice slicing through the ringing in my ears.
"Check the vents, Ruby," I reply, keeping my eyes locked on the elevator bank at the far end of the long stretch. The whole building feels like a massive tomb right now, and I fully intend to be the one who walks out of it alive to bury the rest of these elite pricks.
I spot the small security radio clipped to Hemlock’s lapel.
I don't dare take my hand off the gun, so I drop my chin down, pinning the heavy plastic radio against his shoulder to keep it steady while I reach down with my left hand, loosening my chokehold just enough to rip the coiled earpiece right out of his ear.
I accidentally pull a small lock of his thinning hair along with the cord, causing him to let out a sharp, pathetic yelp of pain.
I don't give a fuck. I jam the plastic bud into my own ear, wincing at the immediate burst of abrasive static and the frantic, disorganized chatter of the security commanders scrambling in the lobby below.
They sound panicked. They don't know what the fuck is happening up here. I can use that.
"Who is on channel one?" I demand quietly into his ear, pressing the gun harder against his skull.
"The—the lobby commander. Sector chief," Hemlock stammers out, gasping for breath.
"Tell them to listen, Arthur. Tell them exactly who is holding you."
"I—"
"One wrong word and you’re a ghost," I warn him, my thumb resting heavy on the radio's transmit button.
I key the mic. My voice comes out as a low, gravelly rumble, the tone of a man who has already decided the fate of everyone listening.
I don't shout. Shouting is for guys who are losing control.
"This is the man who owns your contracts. He’s currently bleeding on my shoes. "
The radio goes dead silent. The static hisses in my ear. I tighten my arm around Hemlock's throat, squeezing hard enough to make him groan a wet, agonizing sound directly into the microphone so the mercenaries downstairs know I’m not fucking around.
"Stand down or start looking for a new job. And a new life," I tell them, the threat absolute and unbending. "Executive level is clear. Do not engage."