Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
The third guy in the line-up bolted. He moved so fast, he was already halfway to the door before any of us could react.
Mikhail gave an order in Russian, and there was a thunder of scrabbling paws and a rush of gray fur as all four of his dogs took off after the man, streaking under tables like furry missiles. As the man reached the door, two dogs leapt and closed their teeth on his arms, dragging him to the floor. As he screamed, a third dog gripped his throat. The fourth stood on his chest for good measure.
Gennadiy, his face a mask of cold fury, marched over to the man, picked him up and slammed him face-down on a table, scattering bottles and glasses. I pulled up the man’s pant cuff, just to be sure. Yep. There was a vicious purple bruise there. “This is him,” I said.
Gennadiy looked at the bartender. “Do you have a back room? Somewhere we won’t be disturbed?”
“Of course, Mr. Aristov,” said the bartender, and pointed to a door. “The storeroom, right in there.” He looked at the rest of us. “And drinks, for your family, while they wait!” He started pouring glasses of vodka, his hands visibly shaking.
I stared, stunned. If I’d been there with the FBI, the bartender would have been yelling about the damage and telling us he was going to sue. It was a whole different world on this side of the line.
Gennadiy grabbed the assassin and dragged him into the storeroom. He glanced back at me, and the look on his face was raw, protective rage. “Wait here,” he told me.
And he closed the door.
39
GENNADIY
The storeroom had white lights, mercilessly bright after the red-tinted bar. I could see the sweat on the assassin’s forehead, the rapid movements of his chest. He knew he was in trouble.
He just didn’t know how much.
I pushed him so that he was sitting on a stack of beer crates. I could feel the rage building inside me. He tried to kill her. He came with a gun in the night and tried to kill her… I forced myself to move slowly and carefully as I stripped off my suit jacket and shirt and laid them neatly over a box in the corner. No sense in ruining good clothes.
I turned to the assassin. I’m used to the anger that swirls in my chest. I’ve carried it for over two decades. But tonight, it felt different. Focused. I wasn’t used to it feeling so personal. I wasn’t used to having someone I cared this much about. “Where is Viktor Grushin?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice level.
The assassin didn’t bother lying. He just shook his head.
Fine. I’d tortured lots of men over the years. I’d never found one I couldn’t break.
I slammed my fist into his jaw, knocking him sideways, then knocked him back the other way. I worked on him for a full minute while the rage spun faster and faster in my chest, and when it was time to stop, it took me another few punches before I managed to hit the brakes and step back.
I’ve always been able to control the anger. Recently, it felt like it was controlling me.
I stood there panting and scowling, looking down at the blood that misted my chest. “Where is Viktor Grushin?” I asked again.
He panted and spat blood, but he wouldn’t answer.
Okay.
I went at him again, letting the anger flood through my veins. I kept imagining her lying there asleep in bed as he crept through her apartment…
This time, when I managed to rein myself in, he was wheezing on the floor, his ribs broken. “Where is Viktor Grushin?!” I roared.
He stared up at me, terrified. But there was a deeper fear in his eyes, a fear of something worse. A slow realization rolled through me: he wasn’t going to talk. Ever.
I growled and punched him a final time, knocking him out. Then I dug through his pockets, found his phone, and pressed his finger to the sensor to unlock it.
I turned to the door...then looked back at the man on the floor, unsettled. Mikhail’s words came back to me. Don’t underestimate Grushin.
Grushin had this guy so scared, he’d rather die than talk. A former spy, a Bratva-hunter.
What if we were out of our depth here?
40
ALISON
The door opened, and Gennadiy walked out, stripped to the waist. Valentin grabbed a bar towel and threw it to him, and Gennadiy nodded gratefully and wiped the blood from his hands. I peeked past Gennadiy, and my hand went to my mouth when I saw the assassin: he was a broken, bloodied mess. “Did he...talk?” I managed.
“No,” said Gennadiy, pulling his shirt on. “But I got what I needed.” And he pulled out his gun and pointed it at the assassin.