Erik holds up his hands, but his eyes are sharp. “Wouldn’t dream of it,brat. Just wondering when Wren Davis became a priority Bratva operation.”
I shoulder past him, not bothering to answer. Truth is, I don’t have a fucking answer. All I know is that the thought of Wren walking into Zimniy’s trap makes my blood boil.
“You coming or not?” I snap over my shoulder, already halfway out the door.
I hear Erik sigh, then his footsteps follow. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, D. Someone’s got to keep you from burning down half the city.”
48
Wren
“I’m just going to see who I’m dealing with,” I mutter, sliding out of the Uber. The driver gives me a weird look, probably wondering why the fuck I want to be dropped off in this shithole. I don’t blame him.
The industrial district stretches out before me, a maze of rusted metal and crumbling concrete. The setting sun casts long shadows, turning every alley into a potential ambush point. I scan the area, my hand instinctively hovering near the gun tucked in my waistband.
No movement. No sound except the distant hum of traffic. It’s too fucking quiet.
I duck behind a dumpster, the stench of rot making my eyes water. From here, I can see most of the street. Rows of warehouses line both sides, their windows dark and lifeless. All except one.
About a block down, four guys stand outside a nondescript building. They don’t pass for regular guards, all buttoned-up with guns blatantly in their grips.
Guess I owe Jake a thank you. His intel was good, for once.
A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. What if I don’t make it out of this? What happens to Em and Lenny, then?
No. Fuck that noise. I’m not dying in some pissing contest with the Russian mob.
I take a deep breath, forcing my racing thoughts to slow.
Focus, Wren. What do I know?
I clench my jaw.
Nothing. I know fucking nothing.
All I know is that I won’t be a sitting duck, waiting for them to “tell” me what they want from me—and why they captured John. Or how they even know about us. Right now, my mind’s a fucking tornado. Is this shit because of John’s usual fuckups, or… could it be about D?
I spot a rusted-out shipping container a few yards away and make a dash for it, keeping low. My back hits the cool metal as I try to slow my breathing.
In, out. In, out. Get your shit together, Wren.
I check my phone again. Shit, how did I miss it? D called me thirty minutes ago. But when I look at the signal bars—fuck me, no service. Of course.
From where I’m crouched, it’s way too far to see or hear what’s going on over there.
Damn fuckballs.
A rumble in the distance catches my attention. I peek around the edge of the container, squinting in the fading light. Three black SUVs roll into view, looking eerily similar to the one I saw earlier. But I can’t be sure.
Why the hell am I even here?
This is suicide. I should be halfway across the city by now, not playing Nancy Drew in Gangster Land.
Christ, for John. He is your father, after all.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment.Focus, dammit.I need to get closer, see what I’m really dealing with.
Keeping low, I move from shadow to shadow, praying they won’t hear the thundering of my heart. As I get closer, I freeze. There, by the warehouse entrance—the same goons who paid me a visit at Joe’s diner.
