24. Vasiliy #3
We move quickly, clearing each room before moving further down the hall.
The warm sun streams through open windows in teasing rays, as though reminding us all of the pleasant day we ruined.
If this is Popov, and he decided to make his move in broad daylight rather than waiting for the cover of night, he must be desperate.
Nothing bends probability quite like a desperate man.
The telltale creak of a footstep sounds ahead. My arm shoots out, pushing Octavia further behind as I raise my barrel. We’re only a few steps from the dark twist of the stairs—nowhere to dive for cover.
I move first, lurching around the corner. Sure enough, another man in a black balaclava stands guard on the steps. I catch him unaware, firing once. The silencer suppresses the explosion, but the man goes down hard, toppling down the narrow staircase with a loud thud.
Anyone in the house could’ve heard that.
“We gotta move,” I say, looping an arm around Octavia’s waist and lifting her to my side as I step over the body. We’re close to the exit now, but that fall revealed our location.
Boots thunder through the house as I take the steps two at a time, lugging Octavia against my ribs as I go. The old wood creaks below each of my hurried steps at a painful pitch that indicates exactly where we are in the modest house. The gasp of surprise by my ear barely registers.
Bang.
Octavia’s bony ribcage slams back into my arm before I can even twist my head.
“Octavia!” Her name leaves my lips in a vicious roar. I pull her body to my front, preparing for a failure I can’t stomach…
A body tumbles past us down the steps, a bullet lodged in his left lung. Focused, green eyes meet mine before darting down to the gun still smoking in her hand. Damn. If there was ever a question of my girl’s capabilities, today has more than answered it.
Keep moving.
Two figures appear at the bottom of the steps, but I dispatch the first with a chest shot before he even raises his gun.
Red blooms in the dark fabric of his shirt for a moment before he collapses.
I line up my next shot, about to end the second hostile, when a horrifying click echoes up to my ears.
My chamber is empty.
I see the fucker’s smirk grow wider the second I throw Octavia down. He shoots, but the shot goes wide, barely clipping my shoulder. Pain bites into my flesh.
Adrenaline wins out.
His left fist flies up in a hook that’s easily blocked.
I leap forward, tackling the bastard to the ground.
My knees press into either side of his ribcage even as he fights to throw me off his torso.
I don’t allow him a second to disarm the hold before burying my fist into his nose, which gives way with a satisfying crunch.
“Vas!” Octavia calls out. My head snaps up, just in time to see her gun flying through the air. I catch it by the barrel, flipping my grip to the trigger and pressing it to the man’s head below me.
The crack splits the air.
“We really gotta have a talk about weapon safety,” I wheeze, as I climb to my feet and usher her towards the back door to the garden.
“It worked, didn’t it?” she says back between panting breaths.
I suppress a chuckle as we slip out the door, using the overgrown rose bushes for cover.
That’s when a series of black vans barrels down the street toward us, brakes squealing as they swivel on the pavement.
Burnt rubber singes my nostrils. Once pulled over, the vehicles sit still on the quiet street, shaded windows shining with wavy reflections of the surrounding trees.
I’m sure they haven’t seen us yet. What are they waiting for?
I get my answer when Octavia’s uncle jogs free from the other side of the house, headed straight for the closest van. He smacks the door once, which rolls open with a clunk, and out climbs a group of heavily armed men dressed in combat gear. I exhale, releasing my tense grip on Octavia’s waist.
About fucking time Siderov’s backup arrived.
Speaking of the devil, salt and pepper hair emerges around the corner, immediately barking orders to the newcomers as he runs our way.
“Octavia,” he gasps in uncharacteristic panic, rushing right up to his daughter and patting down her limbs just as I did earlier.
“It’s okay,” she says in gentle reassurance. “I’m fine, Dad.”
Siderov’s eyes widen into round circles at her first use of the word. Then his arms envelop her small frame in a tight squeeze. I’d prefer for her to stay in my arms until we reach cover, but begrudgingly, I step back.
“Come on, love. Let’s get you to the van. We’ve got a jet prepped and ready in an airstrip nearby.”
That’s when I reach my limit, yanking her back into my arms like a rag doll.
Like hell is he gonna move her to a second location without revealing what he knows about the attack.
Fortunately, I remember to grab hold of her hip, rather than aggravate the bruises still healing on her side or the wrappings on her arm.
Unfortunately, I forgot that I let that asshole clip my shoulder, and the low groan that leaves my throat has Octavia flipping my direction and leveling a concerned look.
One that says I’m most definitely in trouble.