I move fast, sweeping my foot, taking them down. They land with a thud, and I don’t need to look over to see my father glowering. No, he’s assumed I’ve lost my edge, that his guy should be able to take me down without much effort. I won’t be sorry to disappoint him.
I disarm them when they try to grab another gun, then a knife. Then they break the biggest rule of all. They speak. “You fucking bitch,” he spits out in Russian. The brogue of his voice is thick, and I’d put him from the northern part of Russia where some of the most ruthless of Bratva groups call home. The kinds that traffic women and children because of how much money it earns them.
I don’t bother to waste the time to figure out who they are. They try to grab for my gun, and I put a bullet between their eyes. I pull away, not even winded, but I barely have time to get to my feet before two more bodies covered in all black come blasting out of the stairway.
What the fuck is this, a training mission?
Disgusted, I shoot them both before they can reach me, whirling as a couple more come out of the rooms closer to my father. A few of them land a couple of good shots, one disarming me, but my anger burns molten. Is this his plan? Test me? See just how lazy I might have become?
He’s about to be sorely disappointed.
Each of them is more and more desperate, shooting at me wildly instead of with the precision they were trained to have. Skill has been replaced by panic and the drive to impress. They want my father’s favor, but all they’ve done is show him justmuch he’s failed. If I wasn’t fighting to stay alive, I might even laugh.
Timur curses and cries out when one of them tries to use him as a shield, but my father puts that one down without so much as a glance.
It’s the turning point that the others start to realize just what they’ve been brought to. Their slaughter. These aren’t his best. They’re the ones he wanted to get rid of without angering his allies. Dying on a mission, even at his own hands, would be better than him killing them at the school.
It’s a fucked up mess, but one that I don’t care to think on too much. I kill the final one, this one a young woman with a wild look in her eyes, and a terrible form. I should feel guilty, some remorse, but I know better than anyone just what kind of soul you have to survive that place.
There is no rehabilitating them. Not this group.
“Fuck!” Timur screams. “What the fuck, Pasha? You said that you would take her down.” His eyes are wild with pain and fury, blood dripping down his suit and to the floor.
Pasha looks at me, assessing. “Hmmm, yes, well, I’ve changed my mind. It seems my daughter has not lost all her skills like I thought. With some more training and refining, she’ll be one of my best.”
I’m breathing heavier from the exertion of taking on almost a dozen people, but I still manage a snort of derision. “That’s what you took from that? That you think I’m going to go back with you and just turn into another asset for you? Fuck you, Father.”
He doesn’t like that, but other than the promise of retribution covering his expression, he simply replies, “You’ll do what you’re told unless you’d rather die. And I don’t have the wish to lose another asset.” He glances around at the bodies littering the floor dispassionately. “Perhaps in time you’ll be able to take my place. Your brothers and sisters certainly haven’tshown the aptitude for such things as you have. After some much-needed re-training for you, of course.” The smile he gives me speaks of the horrors I’ll have to endure under that threat.
Instead of answering, I lift my gun and fire at him, but instead of shooting at his head or any other exposed part of him that he anticipates, I shoot at the door, and I hear him give a surprised cry of pain.
“You fucking cunt, I’ll kill you for that!” he roars from behind the door. The pain in his voice is mild, so I haven’t hit anything vital. Pity.
I’m already moving, ramming into the door with a hard thud and sending him crashing to the floor. The element of surprise, another one of my father’s lessons, and one of the ones that he clearly hasn’t taught his students.
Timur tries to rush me, but I spin, landing my foot on his gut and sending him flying back against the wall with a loud thump. His head hits hard enough to have him slumping, dazed. I really want to kill him, but he’s Ilya’s, though I don’t know why. It’s a problem to solve later.
I hear the movement, sensing it as I’m already moving, and Father rushes me. He’s still large, full of hard muscle, but I can see the blood running down his arm where I shot him in his bicep. He can still move his arms, but he’s slower. It’s all I need.
I blame my slowed reaction on the previous fights, but he manages to get me to the floor. Unlucky for him, I’ve been training for moments exactly like this, and with men bigger than him.
I guess I have another thing to thank Alonzo and his brothers for the one time I sparred with them.
The gun in my hand goes flying, but I pay it no mind. I bring my knee up, slamming it into his bicep when he reaches down to try and grab my hand, half-trapped under him. He lets out a cryof pain, pulling away just enough that I can headbutt him and buck him off with every ounce of power I can manage.
He rolls, but I know we’re not done. Not yet. I don’t bother heading for my gun, moving quickly and slamming my fist into his face. It only pisses him off, and his own lands hard against my temple, dazing me.
Damn it.
Pure adrenaline keeps me moving, keeps me dodging, landing punches and kicks of my own. My strength and stamina are draining, and I know that’s what he wants. Wounded or not, he’ll never give in easily. It’s going to take a miracle to take him down, but I’ll fucking do it or I’ll let him kill me.
There’s no fucking way I’ll let him take me back. Never let him have that power over me again.
He lands another kick to my stomach, sending me crashing back into the wall. I slump, dazed, panting. My mind screams at me to get back up. Fight. Never give in. My body throbs with pain, unable to comply.
“Pathetic,” he pants. “Even now, after all of that, you don’t fight. I knew you would be a disappointment.” He gets to his feet, slower than before, hobbling as blood drips from gashes and wounds all over his face, arms, and neck. It’s fucking satisfying seeing it.
I spit the blood pooling in my mouth toward him. I don’t think anything’s broken, but my face is already swelling. “And you think I care what you think of me?” I gasp out, watching him. I don’t bother to try and get to my feet or reach for a weapon. I have one more shot at this, and I need to get it right.
