I lay on the seat, shaking like a fuckin’ leaf. My lips were trembling. My hands were shuddering. And even with my ears covered, the gunshots were still loud.
The fight went on for minutes.
Adrik’s men fought back with all they had, protecting me at all costs. Sergei and a few others stood their ground around my vehicle, shooting relentlessly.
However, they were soon outnumbered. And one by one, the men positioned outside my car were gunned down.
I thought it was the end; I thought this was how I was going to die. When I managed to raise my head, the first thing I saw was Sergei getting shot in the arm.
Like that wasn’t bad enough, they shot him again. In the leg this time. He dropped to the ground, groaning. One of the men beside him took a bullet to the head, his blood splashing over the glass in front of me.
My eyes widened in horror, and I covered my mouth, then lowered my head again. I was terrified that I thought I was going to die of fear.
The gunshots stopped, and in my mind, all of Adrik’s men were dead. Sweat dampened my skin as I hid in the backseat of the car, hoping for some sort of miracle.
I could hear the raucous voices of the enemies outside, their heavy footsteps approaching. They were speaking in accented English.
Italian.
They were Italian.
Intermittently, single shots rang out, as though they were shooting to finish off the injured Russians.
This happened on a lonely street, and the chances of help arriving before those monsters found me were very slim. As their footsteps approached—heavy, slow, and menacing—I thought I might as well just start saying final prayers.
They were going to find me. And since my husband had killed the first assassin, my head would definitely be delivered to him in a box.
Before that thought would even settle, one of them yanked the back door open. I raised my hands in the air, my breath hitched in my throat.
“Found her!” he bellowed, his rifle aimed at me.
I closed my eyes, waiting for the cold hands of death to snatch me. Then I heard it—the gunshot.
Bang!
My body flinched when blood splashed over my face—warm and sticky. I froze, unsure of what had just happened.
Was I dead?
I managed to open my eyes, and that’s when I saw my attacker lying dead outside the car. There was a bullet hole in his head, and blood was pooling beneath him.
That was when it hit me: He hadn’t fired that shot. Someone else had. And that someone had just saved my life.
Directly across from me, a familiar figure emerged from a spinning vehicle, firing precise shots that gunned down the enemies. Time seemed to slow down as this man marched forward with two pistols in his hands.
It was him. It was Adrik Tarasov. And he wasn’t alone. He’d brought backup. Guns blazing, they dominated the street, moving like commandos in a Hollywood action movie.
Adrik led the way, emptying his magazines on the enemies. He signaled some of his men to check for survivors while the others chased after the fleeing Italians.
He spotted me in the vehicle and dashed forward amid the chaos.
Tears of joy and relief streamed down my cheeks because I knew I’d just escaped death. He rushed into the backseat and took my hand. I could see his mouth moving, but couldn’t hear a thing he was saying.
It wasn’t until after he tapped my face a few times that I got a grip of myself.
“Emi!” he called, his voice laced with concern.
I blinked back to reality.
