Ivan held up a finger, eyes turning to look at the sky.
I listened.
“Oh, virgin above! Brady!” I leapt to my feet, a fierce panic blinding me to everything except getting my son into the house.
Rayko and Boris stared at me.
Ivan grabbed my hands, tugging me back onto the porch. I wriggled and bucked, but he clapped his hands over my thighs. They were iron bands, refusing to budge.
“It’s the backfire of old Miroslav’s truck.”
Was that freaking laughter in his voice? The bastard thought this was hilarious!
“He custom welded the muffler to sound like that. He runs point for us sometimes. It’s a great distraction. Cops write him tickets, and I clear them,” Ivan continued.
A truck backfiring.
This whole time I was too terrified to send Brady outside to play in the front lawn because of a saints’ damned truck!
I deflated. My shoulders slumped around my ears. “Oh.”
“Chicago is a big city, but plenty of families live here. I work every night to make sure this area is one that can thrive. And like we talked about with the ice cream shop…” he said softly.
“Thugs can attempt armed robberies anywhere,” I finished with a sigh. “Even North Dakota.”
Ivan nodded. But a small smile tipped his lips up again. “I bet the owners there have shotguns under the counters too.”
“Cowboys,” I agreed.
“I’ll always protect what is mine, Poppy.” Ivan leaned forward and pressed his lips on my forehead. “Always.”
The words, the kiss, it felt like I was his. But he didn’t say it out loud.
Chapter 34 – Ivan
Me: It's time.
The absence of the moon turned the water of Lake Michigan black. It rolled thick and bubbling, stretching out to meet the eastern horizon. Logic said it was cool and crisp, but from my vantage point it seemed to be a vat of hot, oozing tar. The smell wasn’t pleasant either. Somewhere, down on the shore, was at least one rotten fish. The wind picked up the scent and carried it over to add a brackish flavor to our evening.
With a crew of two dozen men, I faced the biker bar. The head of the fucking Polish mob was in there. The rat dealt in flesh and drugs. It wouldn’t surprise me to find girls tied in the basement.Which was the reason we weren’t blasting holes in the side of the building.
The smoke bombs, however, were a stroke of tactical genius.
On my count, the men threw them. Windows shattered in a high-pitched chorus. Shouts became the melody, while the boom of several baritones rose in a sweet accompaniment.
I pressed the butt of the semi-automatic rifle into my shoulder. The moment a man burst through the front door, I paused for half a second to spot the leather cut. It marked him as prey.
Shots opened in a rapid staccato, mine the first to lead the song.
The shooting didn’t last long, because the bikers retreated from the windows and doors. Coughs and raised voices flitted from the interior.
“Move!” I commanded.
As one, the brave souls who’d sworn themselves to me advanced.
Behind the broken glass, muzzles flashed as they aimed blindly. The majority of us had military service from stints spent in the Old World conflicts. The vehicles in the parking lot provided excellent cover for us to move safely toward the target.
White light ripped through the dark, arching over the back of the building. A terrifying boom rang out a heartbeat later.
