They wanted to keep him here.
10
“Clarice,”hebarkedintothe phone.
“Mikhail, come back.”She sounded close to tears.
“No,” he snapped.“These people are not on the level.Whatever you’ve become involved in, I want no part of.I’m going home to my wife.Don’t contact me again.”
“B-but what about the apartment?”
That was all she was worried about?“I paid the rent until the end of the year.Live there or not.I won’t foot the bill any longer.If you remain, you must pay the building owner.”
“Mikhail, please return.If you cared for me, please do this.”Desperation laced her tone.Fear.
“What’s going on, Clarice?”
She sprinted to the vehicle, and her eyes were tear-stung and huge in her pale face.
Mikhail scowled.This wasn’t Clarice.She never lost control.
“You must stay and meet my friends.”
“Why?”
Clarice flinched and refused to meet his gaze through the window.
“Why, Clarice?”
She bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder.The fear on her face strengthened, and instead of replying, she tried to use her eyes to communicate.
Mikhail opened the door.“Get in, and I’ll take you home.”
“Gun!”his driver snapped, his gaze on the rearview mirror.
Mikhail leaned closer to Clarice, stretching out his hand even as the car sped up, the tires screeching against the driveway surface.Mikhail grasped Clarice’s fingers and yanked her into the vehicle interior.He ignored her scream.Whoever these people were loyal to—the Bratva, most likely—didn’t care about Clarice but had forced her to attend this dinner.That would explain her panic.He yanked on her arm again, and she tumbled into his lap even as another gunshot rang out.
Then they were shooting forward, and Mikhail swung the car door shut.Their speed increased as their vehicle hurtled toward the closed gate.
“Hang on,” the driver shouted.
The scent of blood came to Mikhail.“Clarice, are you okay?”
“They’ll kill him.They’ll kill him,” she whispered, her voice full of horror.
Seconds later, the car smashed into the gate.Metal screeched against metal.Their pace reduced, and he and Clarice slammed against the front seat.If it weren’t for his strength, Clarice would’ve gone flying.The driver gunned the engine again, and they were through.
“My son,” Clarice said, her voice gurgling.
The scent of blood intensified.“Clarice, where are you hurt?”Now that they were speeding through the suburbs, Mikhail turned Clarice in his arms.Blood smeared his trousers and her arm.Cursing, he ripped open his jacket and tore off the bottom part of his shirt.He folded it into a pad and pressed it against the wound.Clarice moaned.
“You’d better drive to the hospital,” he said to the driver.“The bullet has lodged in her upper arm.There’s no exit wound.”
“Is that wise, sir?”his driver asked.
“She’s h… We can’t treat her at my home,” Mikhail said.
“Very good, sir.”
