This is the world Sasha tried so hard to protect me from, and now I’m right in the middle of it.
“We’re leaving,” Ruth snarls. “And if you struggle one more time, I swear to God I’ll put a bullet right in your belly.”
CHAPTER 43
SASHA
“Last chance to go back to the car,” I tell Bogdan. “You’ve earned it after taking a bullet for her.”
He checks the mag of his rifle. Calm. Methodical. But the movements cause him to wince.
“Job’s not done yet.” He says nothing about the pain.
“Could be for you. Bulletproof vests don’t make you invincible, you know—I’d wager you’ve got a couple of broken ribs underneath that thing.”
He shrugs, which gets another wince out of him. “Not until she’s safe. And I have to point out that you call me paranoid about how I wear a vest every time I leave the house.”
“Never again, I suppose.”
I roll my shoulders under my own Kevlar before turning my attention to the scout up front, who’s flashing me a hand signal. He’s crouched behind the rusted husk of a truck, two fingers raised: back door, movement.
We’re approaching the warehouse Peter rushed to, where we suspect Gabriella is being held. If she’s here, if Ruth is with her, there’s a good chance we can end this war once and for all.
But blood has already been spilled, and there’s more to come. I can feel it.
I’m with Bogdan and my ten best men. The dozen of us are fanning out around the warehouse, moving like ghosts armed with automatic weapons. Peter’s already inside with his own men—we tracked the car after he fled the meeting in a rage.
Bogdan taps my arm, nodding toward the rear loading dock. “There.”
The metal door creaks open just enough for shapes to slip through. Three… no, four men. Irish mob posture, Irish mob dress.
“They making an escape?” Bogdan asks.
“People leaving with confidence tend not to sneak out through the back door.”
“Good point. We drop them?”
“Not until I give the command.”
I raise my hand, signalingholdto the rest of the men. Everyone’s in position. I wait until I’m certain no one else is coming out. A few more had followed the first four, so seven in total. Twelve against seven is good odds, but I want this to be perfect.
Gunfire in the warehouse pops. I can only imagine what it looks like in there.
Then the moment feels right. I clench my hand into a fist. Hell breaks loose.
My men open up clean and controlled. They’re all trained—Spetsnaz, former cops, ex-KGB—so there’s no spray-and-pray. The first Irishman falls before he even knows he’s been seen. A second drops with a clean shot to the forehead. The rest take cover. That leaves five.
The Irishmen regain their bearings more quickly than I’d hoped. They return fire, bullets pinging off metal, hitting the dirt around us with wet thuds. One sparks against the truck near my head.
Bogdan pushes me down with a curse. “Getting shot by one of these thugs won’t do at all.”
I smirk. “You’re the expert.”
Bogdan pops up, taking ice-cold aim with his rifle. I watch him train the sights on one of the Irishmen hiding behind a concrete pillar. He waits, waits, then…pop. The Irishman drops like a sack of meat.
“Nice shot.”
“Unfortunately, it took until this late in the day for me to find my aim.”
