Fuck.
Thisisabout D.
The realization hits me like a sledgehammer. They nabbed John to get to me—so they can get to D.
Shit, fuck, shit.
I need to get out of here, warn D. This is way over my head.
I’m about to move back when a radio crackles to life on one of the guy’s belts.
“Bosszdes’,” a gruff voice announces.
“Boss’s here,” I whisper to myself, my curiosity piqued. Who’s this boss motherfucker?
I halt, pressing myself against the cold brick wall. A massive truck rumbles into the lot, looking like it’s hauling enough firepower to start World War III.
Two figures hop out, a man and a woman. They’re dressed like they’re cosplaying as Bond villains, all sleek lines and dark leather. I almost want to laugh, but the ice in my veins tells me this is no joke.
I raise my phone, zooming in to get a better look. The man comes into focus first. He’s tall, built like a brick shithouse with shoulders that could bench-press a car. His hair’s a shock of silver, cropped close to his skull like he’s fresh out of boot camp. But it’s his eyes that make my blood run cold—pale blue, likea frozen wasteland. They’re the kind of eyes that have seen too much and don’t give a shit anymore.
He’s got scars, one nasty one running along his jaw. This isn’t some mob boss who sits behind a desk. This fucker’s seen action, and I’d bet my last dollar he wouldn’t hesitate to add my scalp to his collection.
I shift the camera, trying to get a look at the woman.
Her back’s facing me. But holy shit. From the back, she’s got a body that could stop traffic, curves and danger wrapped up in skin-tight leather. She turns, and I get a glimpse of her face.
Dark hair frames a face that’s equal parts beauty and…evil.
These aren’t your run-of-the-mill thugs. This is the big leagues, and I’m so far out of my depth I can’t even see the surface.
I lower my phone, my hands shaking. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? More importantly, what the fuck have I gotten John into?
A cold certainty settles in my gut. I can’t do this alone. I need help. I need D.
But as I turn to make my escape, a hand clamps down on my shoulder.
A voice, thick with a Russian accent, growls in my ear. “Ah, little mouse. You should not stick your nose where it does not belong.”
Well, call me a cocksucker.
I react on instinct, driving my elbow back hard. It connects with something soft, and the grip on my shoulder loosens. I spin, my fist already flying.
The guy staggers back, blood pouring from his nose. He’s reaching for something in his jacket.Fuck.
I lunge forward, grabbing his arm before he can pull the gun. We grapple, his size giving him the advantage. My back slams against the dumpster, knocking the wind out of me.
“Suka,” he spits, his face inches from mine.
I bring my knee up hard, right between his legs. He doubles over with a grunt. I grab a fistful of his hair, slamming his head against the dumpster once, twice.
He goes limp, sliding to the ground.
I’m breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through my veins.Shit. Shit.I need to move.
I grab the guy’s gun, tucking it into my waistband alongside my own. Can never have too many guns in a situation like this.
Footsteps. Coming this way.Fuck.
