Another hail of bullets. We move.
Side by side.
Brother and sister.
Blood and war.
Funny, I always considered Grigori a psychopath. Now I'm wondering how much of that is in me, too, because I'm enjoying the hell out of this. It's been a long time since Grigori and I fought side by side.
We burst out from behind the crates, through another door, and out into an alley, then into the lower level of the parking garage, which echoes with alarms and the distant screech of tires. The air tastes like exhaust and gunpowder. Perfect.
Grigori is already scanning rows of cars, eyes bright with that murderous sparkle he gets when life turns interesting. "Where's your car?"
I point at the Bugatti, parked in aReserved for employee of the monthspot. He raises an eyebrow. "An Italian car?"
I shrug and pull the handle. "I'll drive. It's Stephano's; I don't want to get it scratched."
He yanks open the door of the sportscar. "Fine!"
"Fine," I say, stepping back, gun up. "You keep our fan club entertained."
Footsteps slam against the concrete behind us. Then shouting. Then the unmistakable roar of heavy guns.
"Oh, wonderful," I mutter as bullets chew chunks off cement pillars. "They brought bigger toys."
Machine gun fire lights up the floor like fireworks. I drop into a crouch, lean over the hood, and start returning fire in careful, tight bursts. My shoulder aches—burns, actually—and something warm trickles down my arm.
Fuck.
One of the stitches must have ripped. Again.
Stephano is not going to like this.
A bullet whizzes past my cheek, tugging a strand of my wig. I shoot the bastard who fired it.
Maybe… I won’t tell him.
A chuckle escapes me. My wound reopens, and my first thought is:
Stephano will be pissed.
Second thought: He’ll insist on a conversation before we have sex.
Absolutely not.
I hurry behind the steering wheel, and with a push of abutton, the engine purrs to life. As soon as Grigori is in, I put it in drive. Tires squeal. The Venezuelans advance.
The first bullets hit the hood.
Shit.
I grind my teeth. This is my husband's car.
Then—
POP POP POP.
The tires blow before we even clear the aisle.
