Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I waited a beat and when I didn't hear more footsteps running after them, I stepped around the corner out of my cover, kicking the guns away from the one I was leaving to bleed out. The mouthy one was still gasping for breath, so I bent down, pulling the mask off his face so I could look into his eyes.
"Soldiers, even ones who don't belong in the war, get an honorable death. Assholes who talk shit and threaten to rape my woman get to bleed out slow, and suffer."
There was genuine fear in his eyes as I locked down all of my emotion again and continued on my path.
There were several men in the foyer, all dead. Two of my men and four of Solovyov's cannon fodder. Once this was over, our dead would be tended to, his would be disposed of.
The front door was still closed, locked even. They hadn't come through there. That left only two options. The back door from the patio was one, but unless they took a rowboat or something to cross the lake, that was unlikely. They must have come in through the tunnels.
Shit.
There were several tunnels, and each had multiple winding paths. Solovyov wouldn't have wanted to leave it to chance. He would have hired enough men to follow them all, payment upon completion of the job, of course. As if any of them were going to live.
Still, it meant this home wasn't the only one breached. I was on my own. I checked the magazine again. This one had another thirteen shots. Then one more magazine, so that was thirty-one, plus the other gun. I had forty-nine shots, that had to be enough.
A loud crash sounded in the dining room. Pressing myself against the wall, I crept to the swinging double door and pushed it open just a crack. There were five of them I could see. Two of them were throwing the porcelain plates, smashing them to shards against the wall and floor. Completely ransacking the place.
Did they think anyone would believe this was a simple home invasion? They must have.
Another one was breaking crystal glassware, one was pilfering all the silver, and the last was sampling all my liquor before grabbing a few thousand-dollar bottles of wine and putting them in his bag.
Whatever Solovyov wasn't going to pay them, it must not have been enough.
The temptation to say something cocky before opening fire was definitely there, but I was outnumbered and I had no idea how many others were in the house.
This wasn't fun, this was work.
I fired three shots in quick succession, first killing the two that were smashing plates and then the one who was about to put his dirty thieving hands on a bottle of Russian vodka. It was becoming increasingly difficult to get the good shit into the States beyond Customs, and I didn't want to have to pay another bribe.
The other two stopped, staring at me for a second and then scrambled to get to their guns.
I fired another two shots into each of their chests.
More voices called out, more were coming. It sounded like a lot.
The dining room that was once the portrait of elegance and charm was now ransacked. Broken dishes and bottles littered the floor, there were bullet holes in the walls and even the windows had been smashed, from the inside.
I had a feeling it was going to get a lot worse.
There was no more sneaking around, no more catching any of them off guard. It was time to make a stand and have the pigs come straight to the slaughter.
I grabbed the bottle of vodka, unscrewed the top and took a long swig before knocking over the dining room table, glass shards, china, and wood splintering and shattering. Then I grabbed one of the legs and pulled the table over to a wall, creating a makeshift foxhole.
This wouldn't have done shit if Solovyov had sent his men, but this solid oak table was more than capable of withstanding the toys these untrained children were armed with. Hell, the table might still be usable after this.
The first one ran in screaming like Rambo, shooting his gun in a rapid-fire hail of bullets that mostly embedded into the ceiling, sending plaster dust raining down. The fool was just swinging it all over the place.
I ducked behind the table and waited ten seconds for him to burn through the entire clip.
The second that telling click sounded, I popped up and shot him. He may have been the first in the room, but he wasn't the last. The second I popped up, more bullets came flying, this time toward me. Most of them missed.
Most of them.
I took a hit in my upper arm. It stung like a bitch, but I still had my full range of motion.