70. Vasiliy
My hands won’t stop shaking.
But as I look around the empty cell, spotting so many signs of recent occupation, the dominant emotion in my blood is rage.
It would’ve worked. Her plan would’ve worked. He was just here, I know it! Fuck!
A rustling shakes me from my stupor. I fold against the wall, cocking my gun. Three sets of feet. Maybe four.
Without allowing them any preparation, I flip into the doorway and send off my shots. Unfamiliar eyes widen, and the first body drops.
I squeeze the trigger three more times. A gasp. Blood sprays the steps, but the fourth man leaps to the wall for cover, missing my bullets.
Fine by me.
I lunge, tackling the fucker to the cement and bashing his skull against the hard steps. He cries out on impact.
“Where is my wife?”
I can’t hear my own words through the ringing in my ears, but I know he hears me because of the confused tug of his brows. Useless. I pull his head back, smashing it twice more onto the top step. Blood drips, soaking my knees before I rise.
“What’s taking so long? The Pakhan wants the perimeter lock—”
A new face appears at the top of the steps. He’s dressed in a pressed button-down and a pair of slacks, and his exposed skin is littered with raised scars. This guy seems to have more authority than the bottom feeders I just finished playing with. He looks like my new toy.
I’m already halfway up the steps when he manages to draw his weapon. The trigger compresses, and my torso twists, narrowly avoiding a perfect shot to my chest.
“Missed me, bitch.”
I dive for his knees, catching the start of his retreat.
We tumble to the landing at the top of the stairs, rolling for dominance.
I end on top, my barrel tapping against his chin and my thighs disarming his legs.
I could end his pathetic life right now, but I’m so sick of being in the dark.
I fling my gun away from our tangled forms, instead reaching for the knife tucked up my tight sleeve.
“Where is your captive?” My blade kisses his ear. He only needs one, if you ask me.
His jaw clenches as he tries to decide how much loyalty his boss is owed in these final moments of his life.
Or maybe he’s puzzling out a method to throw me off.
I’ve seen the reaction a thousand times.
Usually, I wait it out, let them come to the conclusion in their own time frame. Today, I’m fucking busy.
My knife bites harder, slicing the crease behind the top of his ear. He yelps in pain.
“Where. Is. He?”
“The saferoom upstairs,” he finally responds. “Fourth floor, second door on the right. He’s headed there now with the Siderov girl.” His lips tug in a lazy grin. “You won’t be able to get in. Even I don’t have the key to that door.”
I pull back, giving the guy a once-over. “You were with him.”
He glares back.
My knife presses deeper, severing the entire top section of his ear. “Yes!” he cries, trying to buck me off. “I was at the dinner.”
“And who the fuck are you, exactly?”
I heard his barked orders from the steps. He’s definitely in the inner circle.
“His enforcer.”
I blink slowly. Then the remainder of his ear comes off beneath my curved blade. He shrieks in pain, and the sound is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Spun sugar. Drizzled honey.
This is the man who thought he could lay claim to my wife. There’s nothing I’d rather do than continue slicing this fucker up into teeny-tiny pieces until he makes that sound again…
Except something nags at me.
“You said he took her to the saferoom with him?”
He lifts his chin.
“Did she try to leave the table at any point?” I ask. He shakes his head, eyeing the tip of my blade as it migrates to his neck.
She was supposed to make an excuse to leave the group.
That was the plan. And if she couldn’t, she would sneak away in the chaos of the first attack.
I’ve seen recon photos of Popov. He may be a Pakhan, but he’s old, and he’s cocky.
Even with a handful of soldiers as backup, Octavia could take the guy in her sleep.
She’d never risk moving to a second location.
Unless…that was her plan all along?
Every conversation we’ve had in the last twenty-four hours runs through my mind at a dizzying speed.
That cool resolve that painted her face when I closed her car door and watched her drive off has been bothering me for hours.
Now I remember where I last saw that expression—months ago, through the bars.
She’d kicked out my legs when they came to interrogate her.
I only realized what she’d done once the cage door closed, locking her on the monsters’ side.
My blade unceremoniously slides over the enforcer’s throat, slicing him from ear to, well…
Sweeping my gun from the floor, I wipe my bloody palms. The stairs thunder beneath my boots. There was something in her eyes when she brought the journal downstairs two nights ago. My legs only pump harder. Move faster.
I should’ve known she’d never shy away from a fight.