Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
When I do finally leave the office, the night is already an inky black. There’s a biting chill that feels early for October. I try not to roll my eyes as I remember Lyra telling me to grab a coat this morning. I argued that it wasn’t cold enough yet. I’ll never hear the end of it now.
The town car waits where it always does, parked at the curb, black and polished, windows tinted well past the legal limit. Cops in this city know better than to pull me over. My driver, Anton, holds the door for me without speaking. He knows I don’t like chatter at the end of the day.
I slide into the backseat and nod once. He shuts the door and rounds the front. We pull away from the curb quickly, blending into the hectic New York traffic.
The city blurs past the windows, neon and shadow. I check the screen on my phone, but there are no new messages from Lyra. She’s probably still at dinner. I hope she’s laughing over a shared plate of pasta and telling her aunt some cleaned-up version of our relationship. Or whatever it is we’re doing.
Part of me wants to text her, to hear from her, but I don’t. I remind myself that we’re not established as anything, and it’s good for her to have her space. Instead, I lean back against the seat and close my eyes for a few seconds.
That’s all it takes for everything to go to shit. Gunfire rips through the silence, far too close to the car. And when I feel the car jerk sideways and hear Anton swear under his breath, I know it’s worse than I thought.
To my left and right are two black SUVs, both with masked shooters taking aim at my car. And as if that weren’t bad enough, another SUV pulls out in front of us, blocking us in. I sit up straighter.
Then the first round hits the side of the car. Hard.
The sound is deafening, a clatter of metal on metal, bullets ricocheting off the reinforced panels like hail against glass. The windows hold, but only just. I hear the pop of something in the undercarriage and know we’ve lost the front tire.
I reach under the seat and retrieve the gun I keep in the concealed holster there. Anton’s already pulled his own from the side panel.
“We can’t outrun them,” he says.
“No.”
“We hold?”
“For now.”
Another barrage. This time I see the muzzle flashes, brief orange sparks just beyond the front vehicle. Whoever’s out there isn’t being subtle. They want this to be loud. They want a message delivered.
I raise my voice. “Which direction’s the back alley?”
He glances at the rearview mirror. “Four o’clock. One car behind.”
I weigh it. We can’t stay here. Eventually, the safeguards will fail.
“Smoke and run,” I say. “On three.”
He nods without hesitation.
I count under my breath, then throw the rear door open and fire twice in the direction of the closest muzzle flash. Anton does the same from the driver’s side. It’s enough to startle them and we bolt at the opportunity.
Gunfire follows us, ripping through the air. I duck low and sprint beside Anton, both of us using the broken line of parked cars for cover. Someone shouts in Russian.
Another shot hits the bumper inches from my shoulder, too close. I turn and fire back blindly. We round the corner. The alley is narrow, half-lit by a failing streetlamp. Anton slows long enough to check the end.
Then he grunts. “I think we—shit—”
Sirens wail in the distance now, faint, but getting louder. That’s our cue. The Vasilievs don’t want cops any more than I do. They’ll scatter. I count five shooters. Maybe more.
A black SUV screeches around the far corner just as we reach the other end of the alley. But they don’t come after us. They just drift sideways, forming a blockade, then peel off into the night.
My breath is shallow, but steady. My heart’s thudding, but I’m used to that. I don’t scare easily. Not even when they’re clearly trying to kill me.
Anton stumbles to a stop beside me, and that’s when I see the dark stain blooming under his arm.
“Fuck,” I mutter, reaching out to catch him.
“I didn’t even feel it,” he says, voice tight.
Adrenaline will do that to someone. I push him down onto the curb and press my hand to the wound. It’s not pumping like an artery, but it’s not surface-level either.
“You’re lucky,” I say. “Another inch and we’d be having a different conversation.”
He tries to laugh, but it comes out strangled.
I pull my phone from my coat and dial Viktor.
“I need the table prepped,” I say. “Chest wound. Shallow. Bleeding moderately. ETA eight minutes.”
Viktor doesn’t waste time asking questions. “I’ll meet you at the rear entrance.”
I hang up and switch lines.