Chapter 6
Varvara
“Fucking idiot,” I say under my breath as he just walks away after nearly spilling my tray. I move through the crowd and deliver the Champagne to the table in the corner, and then check my watch. Break time.
About fucking time. It feels like I’ve been on my feet forever at this point.
I hand the empty tray off at the service station and slip through the side corridor towards the staff room before anyone can decide my break is optional.
My feet are killing me. My bra is trying to murder me again.
I need five minutes without some rich bastard clicking his fingers like I’m part of the furniture.
Moving through to the service corridor, the door swings shut behind me, cutting me off from the thump of the music, which gets on my nerves.
At the end, I shove the door open and prop it with the old brick we use as a doorstop, and breathe in the stench of fresh air mingled with old skip. Bin day is tomorrow, thank fuck.
I tug at the neckline of my shirt, trying to get a bit of hot air to hotter skin.
The humidity is disgusting tonight. It’s like breathing through a wet flannel, and this alley doesn’t help. At least it’s quiet. At least I’m alone for five minutes without some man’s hand on my arse or his breath in my face while he orders another bottle of Champagne.
I pull my phone out and check the time. Five minutes. That’s all I’ve got before someone notices I’m not back on the floor.
Leaning against the wall, I close my eyes, and then they snap open when I sense someone in front of me.
His hand clamps over my mouth, and a knife goes to my throat.
I scream behind his hand, but the knife digs in.
Blue eyes bore into mine from a face that I recognise instantly.
It’s the man from the park. Except now he is in a suit that fits him too well, his face hard where it had been mocking before, and the knife at my throat is no match for the pepper spray in my bag.
It is real.
Cold.
Sharp.
He exerts enough pressure that I feel the warning sting.
My whole body locks.
“Don’t fight me,” he says against my ear, low and fast. “Don’t make a sound.”
Panic slams through me so hard my vision nearly goes white.
His gaze sharpens. “Who are you?”
The question costs him. I can see the strain in his face.
I make a muffled sound, unable to answer because his fucking hand is still over my mouth. I tap my name badge, fear coursing through me, but at the same time, this eerie calm that settles right before the crash happens. It’s fight or flight, and fight will always win until it runs out.
“I know your name,” he says, the blade digging in deeper.
I whimper when I feel the burn as it cuts into me, the blood trickling down my neck.
He swallows and stares at it. His body is pressed so close to mine I can feel the hard muscles against me.
“Who do you work for?” he asks, bringing his gaze back to mine and easing up his hand.
“Chyornyy Barkhat.”
“Don’t waste my time,” he says, his gaze practically stripping me down to my soul.
“I don’t work anywhere else.”
He presses down on my chest with his elbow, and I let out a noise of protest. Then he eases up. The knife moves back fractionally. “Fuck,” he says. “You’re not the handler.”
“What?” I croak, my hand going to my throat as he steps back and lets me breathe. “What handler?”
“Shut up,” he snaps, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck!” He slams his fist into the wall next to my head, and despite myself, I flinch, otherwise frozen in place.
I stare at him, my heart racing.
My hand comes away from my throat with blood on my fingertips.
He sees that too, and his expression darkens. Not regret. More like fury with nowhere useful to go.
“Let me go,” I whisper. “Please.”
The plea seems to break him. His face goes from rigid to softer until it settles on absolutely furious. “Check your pockets.”
“What?”
“Do it.”
My hands fumble into my apron pocket and hit something solid but bigger than my pen and spare hair clips. I lick my lips and contemplate briefly whether I should hand whatever it is over.
“Don’t even think about lying to me,” he says. “Or I will come and find it myself.”
That threat is enough for me to close my fist around whatever it is and yank it out of my pocket. “Here,” I say, shoving what seems to be a USB drive at him. “Happy?”
“Nowhere near.” He snatches it from me and puts it in his inside jacket pocket. “That blonde man… who was he?”
“Which man?”
“The one who slammed into you and handed off this piece of intel.”
“Intel?” I croak. “Who are you, the Met?”
He gives me a look that says I’ve just asked the stupidest question in London.
“Do I look like the fucking Met?”
“No,” I say, because he looks like something much worse. “You look like a problem.”
A sharp breath leaves him. Not a laugh. More like my answer catches him off guard and irritates him at the same time.
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know,” I stammer. “Honestly, I’ve never seen him in there before.”
“Fuck,” he says again. “I fucking believe you.”
Yay? What the fuck is this?
My hands tremble, but I clench them into fists. I’m not crashing. Not yet.
“You were used either as a decoy or a tragic case of mistaken identity.”
My throat stings. “You put a knife to my throat over this.”
His expression hardens, but he doesn’t reply.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“A lot,” he says flatly. “We don’t have time for the full list.”
I stare at him. “You don’t get to do this and then tell me we don’t have time.”
Footsteps sound faintly from the other end of the service corridor inside. Both of us hear them. His focus shifts at once, sharp.
A man slips into view, blonde hair, smug face and stops when he sees us. Or more likely him.
He swears in Russian and ducks back the way he came around the corner. The guy who held a knife to my throat lunges forward and then stops as a car accelerates and guns it past the alley entrance.
“Fuck!” he says again.
I swallow and edge my way back to the service entrance door, but he spins and gives me a look that pins me in place.
“Do not be stupid, Varvara. You are now the most wanted woman on the Bratva hitlist.”
“What?” I croak eyes wide. “Bratva? What are you talking about?”
He moves closer and grips my wrist. I yank, but he grips tighter. “You’re coming with me.”
“No, please,” I say, digging my heels in. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know anything. Please don’t kill me.” The crash is coming faster now. My breathing stutters, and my palms sweat.
“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. That was my order. Lucky I know who you are, or I think I do, and my instincts are not usually wrong. I’ve seen enough guilty people to know you’re not one of them.”
“What?” I croak again. It’s like my go-to word of the day, but none of this makes sense.
“Move,” he states.
He drags me a short way down the alley, but then stops when something pings next to me, hits the wall and sends a few small chips at my face.
I stop, but he yanks me down so hard I stumble and hit the pavement with my knees. Pain shoots through them, but it’s nothing compared to the terror that slams through me when another shot hits the wall exactly where my head just was.
“Fuck,” he says and drags me behind a skip. “Stay down.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m pressed against filthy metal and concrete while bullets are hitting the wall behind us, and this man who held a knife to my throat a minute ago is now somehow between me and whoever is shooting at us.
“Who is that?” I gasp.
“The actual handler, I’m guessing.” He pulls a gun from inside his jacket. “Stay behind me.”
Another shot. This one hits the skip with a metallic clang that makes me flinch so hard I nearly scream.
He leans around the edge and fires back. Three shots. Fast and controlled. I hear a grunt, then running footsteps.
“When I say move, you move,” he says without looking at me. “You’re coming with me.”
I can’t answer him. My mouth has stopped working.
“Move,” he says and his hand clamps around my wrist again, but he is jolted to a stop as I don’t go with him.
“Varvara,” he snaps, looking at me and then cursing. “Shit,” he mumbles and hauls me to my feet before flinging me over his shoulder.
I’m trapped. I’m trapped between him and my paralytic fear. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel anything except the hard muscle of his shoulder digging into my stomach and the way my head bounces with each running step he takes.
The world tilts and blurs. Buildings. Lights. The sound of his breathing and my own pathetic gasping.
Another shot cracks somewhere behind us.
He doesn’t slow down.
My hands grip the back of his jacket without meaning to, fingers digging into expensive fabric. I should be fighting. Screaming. Doing anything except clinging to the man who just held a knife to my throat.
But I can’t.
The panic has me in its grip now, and will not stop shaking.
He rounds a corner hard enough that I nearly slip off his shoulder. His arm clamps tighter around the backs of my thighs, keeping me in place.
My vision swims. Black spots creep in at the edges.
No. Not now. I can’t pass out now.
I force my eyes to stay open, watching the pavement rush past beneath us.
My knees throb. But all of that disappears as he unlocks a car and drops me to the ground, catching me before my feet hit the pavement.
He is tall and strong, and he is shoving me into a sports car with a low seat that I stumble into before he slams the door shut.
He’s already in the driver’s seat, engine roaring to life before I can even think about reaching for the door handle. The car lunges forward, the tyres gripping the road. I hear the locks engage with a sharp click that makes my heart lurch.
I press myself back against the leather seat, my fingers scrambling for the door handle anyway.
“Don’t,” he says, not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other still holding that gun. “You try to jump out at this speed, you’ll die.”
My throat is too tight to answer. The cut on my neck burns. My knees ache. My hands shake so badly I can barely keep them still in my lap.
I’m not safe.
I’m in a car with a man who held a knife to my throat, who has a gun, who just carried me away from someone who was shooting at us.