He circles around the ex-soldier and takes him out with some kind of complicated grappling move involving his arms wrapped around Aleksei’s neck.
I’m up and going for round two, more strategic on the approach. I launch a series of combination punches. He manages to block or evade every single one, moving more like he’s dancing than fighting. Anticipating every strike before it’s even made.
He’s an intuitive fighter. But he’s also obviously trained in various styles.
He uses a headstone as leverage as he jumps off it and executes a spinning kick. I’m finally a step ahead, grabbing at his leg and using brute strength to toss him to the ground.
When he lands, he’s back up no less than a second later.He’s leaping up and landing a strike to my throat. The exact right pressure point to cut off my air.
I cough, choking on my own breath, and am immediately rendered fucking useless.
Frustration surges through me as I grip at my own throat and force myself to breathe like normal.
Aleksei scrambles back onto his feet, fresh blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. He looks around wildly, his good eye searching for the assassin.
It’s too late; he’s already long gone.
At the far end of the cemetery plot, his dark figure can be seen sprinting off and then hopping the wrought-iron gate.
“DAMN IT!” I roar. I turn around and throw a fist at the same stone statue Aleksei had accidentally hit.
“Told you,” Aleksei says begrudgingly. “He is good. He can handle entire crews of men.”
“We were bigger. Stronger. We should’ve had that in the bag.”
“Not with Koschei. He is Fedorov’s prized soldier for good reason.”
“He’s mortal. Which means he can be taken out. So can Fedorov. We keep fighting ’til we finally make it happen.”
I’m clenching my fists at my sides as I turn and stride off, back the way we came.
“That’s right, Kill! Go for the weak points—you’ve got this in the bag!” Malone grunts days later.
I’m attacking the heavy punching bag, in the middle of another long and intense session at the gym. I’m hot as a fucking furnace and dripping sweat all over, but I’ve got no plans on stopping any time soon.
Lately I’ve been imagining Sharapova’s face on thepunching bag. But ever since the trip to the Orthodox Church in Brighton Beach, Koschei’s masked face is on it.
He might’ve come out on top for round one, but I’m not a quitter. Not as far as fighting’s concerned. I’ll always return for a rematch.
Next time, I’ll be the victor.
Jhene’s off in the corner with one of her puzzle books.
It was another case of no buttonmen being available. Ronan’s been less willing to offer anybody up for Jhene’s private guard, stating our soldiers are needed elsewhere.
Fine by me. I’ll always protect what’s mine, and Jhene as good as belongs to me.
She’s mine in the way anybody you care about deeply is.
She watches me train when she thinks I’m not looking. Little does she know, I’m aware every damn second.
Sometimes, I show off for her. Flex my might and prowess so she knows I’ve got her. They call me The Kill for a reason, even if I lost that confrontation with the Russian assassin.
After another fifteen minutes of punishing the bag, I finally step back and wipe the sweat from my forehead with a towel.
Jhene’s still pretending to focus on her puzzle, but I can see the way her eyes keep drifting in my direction.
“Hey, stray!” I call out, grabbing my water bottle. I chug half of it. “Put that book down and get over here.”
