I look around frantically. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
The footsteps are getting closer. Any second now, they’ll round the corner, and— My phone vibrates, the fucking thing practically screaming in my pocket.
One thing horror movies got right—putting your phone on vibrate is about as stealthy as a fart in church. Real fucking helpful right now; thanks, Hollywood.
“Chto eto bylo?” one of the goons asks.
What’s that? That’s my fucking phone, genius.
I fumble with my phone, trying to silence it. My hands are shaking, slick with sweat or blood, or both.
A shadow falls across the alley. I look up, right into the barrel of a gun.
“Dobroye utro, devushka,” the man says, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
“Well, it’s sure as hell not morning,” I spit back, rolling my eyes. “But good morning to you, too, asshole.” I raise my hands slowly, my mind racing. How the fuck am I going to get out of this one?
The man gestures with his gun. “Turn around. Slowly.”
I comply, my muscles tensed, ready to move. Just need an opening, a distraction, anything.
He looks down at his unconscious comrade, then back at me. His eyes narrow. “You’re going to regret that,suka.”
I meet his gaze, forcing a smirk. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made someone regret something.”
49
Dimitri
The GPS drones on, its robotic voice grating on my last nerve. “In 300 meters, turn right.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter. The sleek black SUV eats up the road, but it’s not fast enough. Never fast enough when Wren’s walking into a fucking trap.
And she’s not picking up the fucking phone!
“Three minutes,” I growl, glancing at the ETA. “Blyat.”
Erik shifts in the passenger seat, his eyes scanning the road ahead.
“You know, D, I’ve seen you calmer walking into ambushes.”
I don’t bother responding. My jaw’s clenched so tight it might shatter.
Erik won’t shut his trap. “Just saying,” he drawls, eyes gleaming like a shark that’s smelled blood. “Never thought I’d see the day when Dimitri Orlov loses his shit over a girl.”
I want to skin thisbratalive. Slowly. With a dull butter knife.
Instead, I let out a grunt that sounds like a constipated bear.
The GPS chirps, “In 800 meters, turn right.” No shit. There are no other roads beside right.
Oleg and Saveliy’s black Tahoes loom in my rearview, tailing us like obedient dogs. Two more cars packed with our best muscle bring up the rear.
My foot gets heavier on the gas pedal.
Erik’s head snaps up from his phone. “Calm down, D. You’re gonna get us all killed before we even reach the warehouse.”
“I’m perfectly fucking calm,” I snarl.
