Page 19 of Tied Over

“Just, you’d think they’d go in for a little more elbow room.”

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” Bodhi asked.

“And Christ, is that ‘The Girl from Ipanema’ playing?” I press-checked my Glock 20 to shake off some nervous energy.

Silence again.

“Yeah,” Bodhi said, grinning at me. “That is, in fact, ‘The Girl from Ipanema.’”

Everyone chuckled then, and it felt better. Leave it to Bodhi.

I checked Washington’s body armor again, and he smiled.

“You’re worried about me,” he said softly.

“Kinda my job. You stay behind me. Never in front, never beside,” I warned him. “I will not have the first conversation I ever have with your mother be that her son is dead.”

“Plus the paperwork is insane,” Bodhi reminded me.

“And that,” I agreed.

Washington was grinning as the elevator dinged.

In the hall, Crouse sent Ortega and Kim ahead. We took up the rear and moved out of the lift when they gave us the all-clear. The Feds took up position on either side of the door as Washington knocked. When no one answered, he tried the door, finding it unlocked. Kiss of death right there.

“Were you listening in the goddamn elevator?” I growled, stopping Washington from opening the door. He was our witness, after all; we were charged with his protection. Bodhi and I were likely going to find ourselves on the block when Becker realized how easily things could have gone sideways, and he was a big believer in taking way more men than necessary. He didn’t care, like Crouse did, about optics. He didn’t care if our captures were on the news, so already, our small team would have given him hives. But this would all go down easier if we didn’t add a dead witness to our laundry list of sins.

We formed a tight phalanx around Washington as we silently stepped into the luxury apartment’s airy entry. To the left was a wide archway, and in front of us was a long hallway. We were completely exposed—all anyone had to do was walk out of any of the doors I could see or come from the left. It was a nightmare.

“Which way?” Crouse asked in a harsh undertone.

“This goes to the bedrooms,” Washington whispered, pointing down the length of the corridor. “Rasha is at the very last one there, with the double doors facing us.”

“Okay,” I said, shoving him behind me.

“That,” he said, pointing to the large square archway, “leads to the living room and the kitchen. It’s all open concept. It’s a really nice place.”

Bodhi groaned, because really, were we touring real estate properties or saving his girlfriend? I got it, though; everyone had a different reaction to something like this. Some people freaked out and fell apart, some got a bit too hyped up on adrenaline, while others, like Washington, were so used to crap like this in their lives, they went with the flow. I was glad he wasn’t panicking, but I could do with a bit more fear from him, like downstairs.

When I felt Bodhi’s hand on my shoulder, which told me our witness was now behind him and that I was clear to move forward, of course that was when Rasha opened the door to her bedroom and saw Washington.

“Terry,” she gasped, and rushed down the hall toward us, carrying a fluffy Siamese cat in her arms.

Washington slipped around us and ran toward her.

In my periphery, I saw sudden movement as a shirtless guy walked out into the hall. Tattoos sprawled across his chest and arms, each marking a chapter of his life within the Bratva.

“What the fuck?” he roared, reaching for his Heckler & Koch MP5K machine gun. “Burian, the fuckin’ punk-ass bitch is screwin’ you over!”

Okay, switching from quiet surgical strike to loud. In my head, I’d known better. No way was this op going to play otherwise.

“Fuck,” Bodhi yelled, flying forward to reach Washington and Rasha.

I arched my Glock up before the muzzle of his H&K could rise to the threat position and emptied three rounds in a quick burst at the henchman. Two bullets struck the man in the upper chest, punching a couple of holes in his lungs. The third round chinned him as he fell away, the lower half of his face exploding in a spray of blood and bone fragments that painted the neutral-toned wallpaper in a bright-red mush.

“Everyone’s coming now,” Crouse stated, and I checked to see that my partner had both Washington and Rasha pressed to the wall behind him. It wasn’t great. If there was anyone in the rooms to the right or across from him, he’d be killed, and so would they.

He had to get out with them.