Page 38 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"Ilya!" she shrieks, her fingers digging into the torn fabric of my jacket, feeling the wet warmth of my blood spreading down my sleeve.

"Moving!" I bark, driving us through the heavy double swinging doors of the museum kitchen.

The kitchen is a long, narrow tunnel of stainless steel tables, bright fluorescent lights, and the scent of burnt grease. But it isn't empty.

Two hitmen in grey vests are already waiting by the walk-in freezer, their submachine guns raised. They weren't expecting us to break through the banquet line.

I don't give them the second to adjust their aim. I push Via behind a massive stack of industrial dishwashing crates, my Glock barking twice before the first man can clear his safety.

The first round catches him right between the eyes, his head snapping back as he slams into the stainless steel prep table, a thick spray of dark crimson painting the pristine metal before he slides to the floor.

The second man fires a wild, panicked burst that chews through the plastic crates over Via’s head.

I charge him.

I don't waste the ammunition. I close the distance in three long strides, my heavy boot planting directly into his chest, forcing him back against the industrial stove. The heat from the burners is roaring, the scent of searing flesh instantly filling the air as his vest catches the metal grill. He lets out a sharp, wet grunt, trying to raise his barrel, but I grab his wrist with my left hand and twist.

The bone gives way with a deep, sickening crack.

He drops the gun, his mouth open in a scream, but I drive my right fist into his jaw, the raw impact of my knuckles shattering his teeth. He staggers, his eyes rolling back, and I finish it by grabbing the back of his vest and slamming his skull directly into the edge of the iron flat-top grill.

Two.

He goes limp, sliding into a heap of grease and red on the tile floor.

"Ilya, behind you!"

Via’s voice is a sharp, breathless warning that saves my life.

I spin on my heel just as a third man lunges through the dishwashing door, a heavy combat knife aimed straight for my throat. He’s fast, a professional, his movement tight.

I duck under the blade, the cold steel whistling past my ear, and drive the heel of my boot into his knee. The joint snaps backward with a loud, wet pop. He drops to his good knee with a guttural roar of agony, but he’s still dangerous. He swings the knife upward, catching the meat of my forearm.

The blade slices deep, a clean, biting pain that makes me hiss through my teeth.

I ignore the cut. I grab his knife hand, twisting it until his fingers open, and catch the weapon before it hits the floor. In a single, continuous motion, I drive the heavy steel blade straight down through his collarbone, sinking it into his chest until the hilt hits his vest.

Three.

He chokes, a thick bubble of pink froth rising to his lips as his lungs fill with red. He falls forward, his forehead hitting my boot before he goes still.

I turn back to Via. She’s huddled between the crates, her hands over her mouth, her hazel eyes completely wide as she looks at the three bodies, the blood dripping from my arm. She looks like she’s about to vomit, her breathing so short and jagged I can hear the click of her throat from across the kitchen.

"Come here," I grunt, my voice rough as I slide my hands under her arms and haul her out of the corner.

She doesn't pull away. She buries her face into my chest, her wet cheeks soaking through my white shirt, her arms wrapping around my neck with a desperate, wild strength. "Don't leave me. Ilya, please. Don't let them..."

"Nobody is touching you," I say, my hand coming up to cup the back of her head, my fingers tangling in her golden hair as I press her face deeper into my shoulder. I can smell her vanilla, thin and sweet under the suffocating stench of the gunpowder and the grease. She’s mine. Every terrified, beautiful inch of her.

The double doors at the far end of the kitchen rattle.

Two more men break through the rear exit from the loading dock, their rifles raised. They see the bodies on the floor, they see the blood, and they see me standing in the center of the room with the girl.

"The Pakhan!" one shouts, raising his barrel.

I don't have a clear shot with Via in my arms but I grab a massive copper stockpot filled with boiling water from the prep stove next to me and hurl it down the narrow aisle with everything I have.

The heavy metal pot hits the first man dead center, the boiling liquid splashing across his face and chest. His scream is a horrific, high-pitched shriek as the skin of his face instantly blisters and peels, his rifle clattering to the tiles as he drops to his knees, clawing at his own eyes.