Chapter 3
VIKTOR
Igrab the rear door handle and rip it open hard enough to rock the frame.
The man inside turns toward me with his gun half-raised, surprised but not so much that he’s completely frozen.
He’s trained well enough to respond, but he’s just not fast enough.
I fire once into his shoulder to ruin his shooting arm, then step in close before he can process the damage.
He slams back into the seat with a guttural sound, trying to switch hands.
I easily grab his gun as he struggles with his pain and shoot him through the head for good measure.
I shift my stance, lean forward between the front seats, and fire. The first round punches into the driver’s side just below the ribs. He jerks and tries to twist toward me. The second shot takes him through the temple. His head snaps sideways and his body collapses over the steering wheel.
The horn blasts under his weight, shrill and constant, filling the street with noise. I grab the back of his shirt and pull his lifeless body back against the seat to stop the sound.
The third man scrambles out the opposite side, choosing flight over fight.
He’s probably the smartest of them. I move around the rear of the car, cutting off his path before he can get away.
He turns to shoot, but his grip is sloppy.
I knock the muzzle aside and drive my elbow into his jaw.
His bone crunches underneath the weight and he stumbles back from the pain.
I fire once into his chest at close range and watch him collapse against the pavement.
The street becomes eerily quiet in the aftermath of the violence, despite both our engines still idling. I step back toward the open rear door. Anya Malenkova is still inside, fidgeting with the ropes around her wrists.
Glass clings to her hair. Blood marks the corner of her mouth. Rope cuts into her wrists. With the violence over, she’s no longer crouched on the floor. She’s upright, full of an easy grace. When she sees me standing there, she meets my eyes with a certain amount of vitriol.
I reach in and grab at the rope, slicing it through cleanly with my pocketknife. The fibers easily fall away, and she only hesitates for a single moment as she feels the binding come loose.
She’s much quicker to react than her captors, though. She lunges forward over the fallen man’s body and grabs his gun with both hands, pointing it at me.
Her grip is steady and sure. She isn’t just a scared girl grabbing the first weapon she sees. She’s trained and practiced. Her hands don’t shake even a little as she points the gun at the man next to her.
I catch her wrist before she fires.
She twists instantly, trying to roll the barrel toward me instead, without even flinching. She doesn’t know who I am yet, and that doesn’t matter to her.
“Let go,” she says evenly.
Her pulse is steady beneath my fingers.
“He’s dead,” I tell her. “Don’t waste a bullet.”
“He’s still breathing,” she argues.
Her finger tightens on the trigger without hesitation. There’s no panic in her face, no wildness.
I take the weapon from her hand and toss it onto the front seat. She shoves against my chest immediately, aiming an elbow toward my ribs. I shift my weight and absorb it without reacting.
“Don’t touch me,” she seethes.
I release her and step back half a pace. She climbs out of the car on her own once she unties the rope binding her feet.
She straightens her spine, rolls her shoulders once as if resetting a joint, and scans the streets.
“Who the hell are you?” she asks.
There’s no gratitude or relief in her question. She’s pissed, and all her anger is now directed toward me. She’s completely unafraid, which I find fascinating. She just watched three men murdered in front of her, but her priority is to interrogate me.
“Does it matter?” I ask seriously. “Those men tried to hurt you, and now they’re dead.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“You’re full of shit,” she responds. “You didn’t just interfere with the most notorious man in Brooklyn to save a stranger. You an enemy of Grinkov?”
“Honestly,” I say slowly. “The less I have to deal with that tvar, the better.”
“Which family are you from?” she demands. “You’re clearly Bratva.”
“That’s not your concern,” I shoot back. “Though there’s no need to ask who you are, Anya Malenkova. Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for a wedding?”
She studies me without blinking. I can see calculation behind her fury.
She has questions she needs answered, but first she has to assess her chance of getting out of this.
If I’m a threat, she’s got one more fight.
If I’m a savior, she gets to walk away scot-free.
It’s almost exciting watching her try to piece together who I am.
I decide to let her stew in the mystery.
I walk to the last man and check for movement. He’s bleeding out slowly, eyes wide with shock. I kneel down and finish him off cleanly, putting him out of his misery. When I stand back up, she’s still watching me.
Most people would look away from that part. She doesn’t.
“Would you have preferred I save him for you?” I ask sarcastically.
“Viktor Kovalev,” she says my name almost like a whisper. “They call you The Enforcer. I recognize you now.”
“And do you like what you see?” I ask cheekily. “Careful, I wouldn’t want Mikhail getting jealous.”
“Mikhail can rot in hell for all I care,” she nearly growls. “You’d better get out of here before his men find you.”
“And what will you do?” I can’t help but ask her.
Where does she go from here? She clearly wanted to get away from Mikhail, otherwise his men wouldn’t have dragged her into a car kicking and screaming. What’s her endgame, I wonder. How is she going to play this unexpected moment of potential?
“That’s not your business,” she says defensively. “And it isn’t Mikhail’s either.”
I glance at the street once more. There are no witnesses around now, but drunk people have a way of wandering into places they don’t belong. The scene on the street will be discovered, but not immediately. By then we’ll be gone.
“You can’t stay here,” I tell her. “And there’s nowhere for you to hide on your own.”
She steps toward the mouth of the alley as if testing that statement. I move into her path without touching her.
“Move out of my way,” she demands.
“Or what?” I challenge.
Her jaw tightens. She knows she’s trapped here. She has no car, no weapon, and nowhere to hide. But I do.
As soon as the thought forms, I know I can’t leave her here. Worse, and most troubling, I don’t want to leave her here.
I look at her wrists. They’re raw and red and already swelling from the rope. She’s no victim, of course. She won’t complain about a little pain.
“You’re coming with me,” I tell her, definitively, grabbing at her wrist, above where the welts are forming.
She twists against my grip, trying to break free. She’s strong, but I’m much stronger. Her eyes narrow at me, and hate fills her rich, brown eyes.
She drives her free elbow toward my ribs, landing harder than I expect. I absorb it, but don’t give her any other reaction. I’ve seen her fight and I know that she’s not leaving here without one. My only option is to let her tire herself out.
She tries to hook my leg to take me down. It’s efficient, but her foot doesn’t land right, so my knees don’t buckle. She sighs in frustration as she realizes that she physically cannot take me.
“I’m really not,” she spits, using her words when her physical assault yields no results. “What’s your plan here, Viktor? Do you think you can use me for leverage against Mikhail? Do you really want to start a war you can’t win?”
I consider her words for only a moment. I definitely don’t want that, but there’s no chance in hell I’m leaving her here. There’s already a car approaching. I can see its headlights in the distance. There’s no time. I pick her up easily around the waist and throw her over my shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses into my ear, struggling against my grip. “Let me go, or I swear to God, I’ll murder you.”
“With what weapon?” I shrug, laughing to myself.
She continues to hurl insults into my ear on the short walk to the car.
I open the passenger door and set her down inside before she gets another chance to argue.
She pivots toward the opening instantly, but I close the door firmly and keep hitting the lock button on my remote so she can’t get out.
I circle around to the driver’s side, keeping my eyes on her the whole time.
By the time I get in my seat, she’s already trying the handle. Unfortunately for her, I flipped the child lock on. She has no way to get out.
“Enough,” I say patiently. “This is happening.”
She turns toward me slowly, seething. “This is kidnapping.”
“The way I see it,” I say casually, “I’m doing you a favor.”
Before she can argue any more, I pull away from the street and zoom out into the street, getting us as far away from the scene as possible. The sooner this incident is behind us, the better.
“A favor?” she fumes. “You’re out of your mind if you think Mikhail is going to negotiate with you. He’ll kill you and everyone you’ve ever loved just to prove that he can. You’re a foolish man, Viktor.”
“Maybe.” I shrug, giving her nothing else to argue about.
She folds her arms over her chest and glares at me for the entire drive to Bay Ridge. I don’t mind her anger a bit.