Page 16 of Nemesis

I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I make a crucial mistake.

I tune out my surroundings.

I don’t take note of the shadow that falls over me, or Octavia’s widening eyes, which flick to my right shoulder in warning just a second too late.

The strike comes fast.

Pain explodes in the side of my skull as something slams into me from behind. My vision flickers and my ears ring, warping Octavia’s cry of alarm.

I fight through the throb and find my balance, slipping into a familiar fighting stance. However, when I reach for my weapon, I find my holster empty.

Fuck.

I turn to my attacker, slamming my fist into the soft flesh of his throat. The unfamiliar man hits the pavement hard, gasping for air.

I don’t get to celebrate the win, however, because a large van screeches up to the curb beside us and the doors fly open.

“Boss wants both of them. Move!” someone cries out as more men pour from the open vehicle.

“Get behind me,” I hiss to Octavia, who clambers to follow my command just as the attackers approach.

I thrust my boot against a knee, bringing one guy down while I land another jab. Somehow, more come at me, and it takes a moment to realize another van of men has pulled up right behind the first to provide backup.

My head pounds. Blood trails down my temple.

This is a planned attack.

“Vasiliy,” Octavia calls out as my hand wraps around another throat.

I turn immediately.

And my blood runs cold.

My gaze narrows in on a silver barrel denting Octavia’s flushed cheek. She doesn’t look irritated anymore. She looks terrified. Her bright green eyes are wild and wide, pleading with me as though I’m her only way out of this. It’s that expression that causes my moronic hesitation.

“She has nothing to do with this.” Dread pours through my lungs like a leaky roof in a storm. I raise my bloody fists in surrender. “Take me instead. I will tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Get down on the ground!”

My knees meet the cold pavement.

If it were just me, I’d fight them off without an issue. A well-placed kick to the guy’s knees beside me. His gun would fall loose from that amateur grip of his, right into my waiting hand. I’d empty the magazine, and not a single bullet would go to waste. It’d be a bloodbath worthy of my night.

But none of that happens. Instead, all I can do is stare at the ballerina’s wide gaze and wonder why I can’t afford to take that chance.

Pressure smacks into me.

And everything goes blank.

Something jagged and cold digs into my cheek.

I blink my crusted eyes, but for some reason, there’s nothing on the other side. It’s too complete to be described as darkness. I blink again, desperate for my hand to come into focus against the gravelly texture of the floor.

To my horror, nothing appears.

The next thing that registers is pain. That part isn’t unusual. I’ve woken up in pain every day for the past few years. What is unusual is the source of the pain. My head and body ache so badly, I hardly notice the ever-present scream of my injured knee.

I scramble up to sitting, surprised to find myself sprawled on the hard ground. I look left. Right. It doesn’t seem to matter. Ink blankets every direction in a disorienting haze.