23. Enzo #2
The second bedroom is the same as the first: singed walls, furnishings in tatters, an air of perpetual twilight pervading the entire house.
We enter the third room as before, me in front, Luis at the rear, mimicking our other group’s movements on the opposite side of the house.
Nothing moves, there isn’t even a whisper of fresh air, but it feels different. I sniff the air, raising my nose towards the ceiling like an animal locating its prey, and that’s my first mistake. While I’m looking up, the furnishings move like shadows coming to life.
Two of Malevsky’s men sit up on the bed, shedding the grimy comforter like a second skin, dust and ash creating dirty gray clouds around them.
I land a bullet between the eyes of the first thug, while Luis’s shot glances off the second guy’s temple.
We both dive onto the floor and into a sideways roll as more shadows step out from behind the curtains, and the closet doors open.
Bullets fly back and forth across the room.
I take down one of the curtain shadows, and roll under the bed, firing another bullet through the mattress and into the thigh of the guy Luis missed as he lunges at my friend.
From this vantage point, I fire into the closet, hitting their legs and slowing them down, but it’s obvious they have Luis in their sights.
I army-crawl out of there, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, and fire straight up into the face of the same guy from the bed. “Three bullets. Die, you fucker!”
This time he sprawls backwards, but not before releasing a final bullet from his weapon. Pain explodes like a fireworks display in the same shoulder Megan patched up earlier, tearing open the original wound and setting fire to the nerve endings and ligaments.
I hear a groan from across the room and drag myself out from underneath the bed and onto my knees.
One of the Bratva mob is clutching the side of his face with one hand, blood soaking through his shirt and oozing between his fingers.
When he spots me, he raises his gun in his free hand, the weapon shaking as he aims it in my direction.
I could put him out of misery, but I’m not feeling generous today.
So, I pump a bullet through his hand, and two more through his legs, shattering the tibia on both limbs.
Luis is holding a wound on the right side of his torso. His face is pale, but he manages to stand up and reload his weapon, ready for round two.
We made it into the house, but the gunfire will have alerted Malevsky and his men, giving them time to prepare for our arrival downstairs, which feels a little like leaving the graveyard and descending into the crypt.
Luis and I grab the thug with half a face and drag him across the landing towards the top of the sweeping staircase.
The foyer is at the bottom, but from what I recall of the layout, directly below the staircase is a space large enough to comfortably host a small party if no one is averse to invading each other’s space.
The instant our feet hit the first step, it’ll be game over…
unless we can create a little distraction.
Which is where our new friend is going to prove useful.
A groan escapes his lips as we reach the top and wait behind the wall. I grab a grenade from my pocket and stuff it in his mouth; his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t try to spit it out.
On the opposite side of the landing, two of our men exit a bedroom supporting another hostage, bleeding from a wound in his chest. They copy our position and lean against the wall waiting for my signal.
The third member of their team doesn’t show. By my calculations, the odds are still in our favor.
I retrieve a small device from the inside pocket of my jacket, rip the cover from the detonator and toss it down the staircase, leaving a trail of smoke as it goes. Then, I raise three fingers, and lower them one at a time, counting down to the moment when we hurl our hostages into the smoke party.
They’re welcomed with a barrage of gunfire.
Bullets punch ragged holes in the wall behind us at the top of the landing, sending splinters of wood and plasterboard flying in all directions.
We don’t wait for it to stop. While the smoke is still hindering their view and their hopefully-now-dead gang members are keeping them occupied, we open fire, shooting into the dirty gray cloud at the bottom of the stairs as we descend like a mini-stampede of wild animals.
A bullet grazes my shin. With the adrenaline pumping around my veins, it feels like a bee sting, and I give it no heed as we enter the smokescreen, aiming at chest height, and trusting luck to help the bullets find their targets.
One of my men takes a bullet in the leg as we approach the lower level.
Bodies litter the stairs and the floor, but all four of us are still standing as we emerge from the smoke and find a welcome party—two lines of armed thugs facing each other in a line dance formation to create a clear route towards the main attraction.
Malevsky wants me alive.
Suits me.
I want to see his eyes when he realizes he has drawn his last breath.
I walk down the middle of the hallway, and the goons on the end use their firearms as I pass to block my team from following me.
I keep going. My shattered shoulder is shouting at me inside my head, but it can wait till later.
All I care about is destroying Malevsky and saving Demi, and the way I see it, I still have the advantage because I’m doing this for all-consuming love, not stone-cold revenge.
Something I doubt Malevsky will ever understand.
The armed guard ends at the doorway to the piano room.
“You can stand down now.” I address Malevsky’s men. “I’ve got it from here.”
Voices I recognize reach me from the other side of the door, and that’s when the first sliver of ice crawls down my spine and spits on the fire inside me.