"Oh, for fuck’s sake," I snap.
"Run," Grigori orders simply.
We’re out of the car and sprinting back up the ramp. My shoulder throbs harder. Shit. Definitely bleeding.
"You’re hurt," Grigori growls.
"I’m fine," I lie.
"You’re dripping."
"So what? You’ve shot people while half-dead."
"Exactly," he snaps. "You’re not me."
I roll my eyes and shoot the man aiming at Grigori’s back. "Focus. And I'm at least seventy percent you."
"That’s the problem," he mutters.
We reach the top level, the open roof. Wind slaps at myface. Sunlight glints off rows of parked cars. And down on the street level? Dark SUVs.
So many of them.
"Fuck," I breathe. "That’s a whole goddamn army."
"Da," Grigori says, like it’s mildly interesting trivia. He’s already firing one-handed while speaking low Russian into his phone.
"Backup?" I ask, swapping mags.
"Ten minutes out."
"We don’t haveaminute."
He doesn’t argue that.
The Venezuelans behind us fan out, pushing us toward the far end of the roof, cornering us. Smart. Annoying.
Grigori flicks me a sideways look. "Make it count."
I snort. "You’re so dramatic."
Then the wind shifts.
A deep, vibrating thrum cuts through the chaos. Rotors.
A helicopter sweeps into view over the edge of the garage, gray, gleaming, beautiful. Machine gun fire erupts from its open door, mowing down the men coming for us. The chopper dips lower, close enough so I can see Toni leaning out the open frame, hair whipping in the wind, grinning like the devil he is.
He cups a hand around his mouth. "Your husband says hi!" And then, like an afterthought, "Hey, Grigori!" as he fires another burst over our heads.
"Toni," Grigori replies with an equally casual nod, shooting someone in the face. "Nice to see you."
"Likewise!"
Toni reaches out an arm to me. Before I can take it, Grigori puts a hand on my lower back and shoves me toward him.
"Ladies first."
"Asshole," I growl, jumping.
