Page 49

Two more men surged toward us, one with a tire iron, the other with a hunting knife. Snow kicked up around their boots, breath clouds exploding in front of their faces. Yuriy was already moving, weight light, expression almost bored. He pulled a second blade from his coat with a flourish that would’ve been theatrical if it weren’t so fucking deadly.

The second knife flew, silver flashing under the winter sun, and buried itself deep in the chest of the man with the tire iron, dropping him like a sack of meat.

“I know my awesomeness is blowing your mind right now,” Yuriy said, pivoting effortlessly, “but a little help here would be appreciated, babe.”

“Fuck,” I muttered.

The man with the hunting knife lunged. I fired once, and the bullet tore through his thigh. He collapsed with a roar, clutching his leg and screaming in agony.

The final man—the one who’d run for the car—didn’t make it. I took two steps, inhaled once, and squeezed. The shot punched through his back, and he dropped midstride.

The woman behind the wheel did the smart thing. She floored the gas. Tires shrieked and snow geysered up, blinding us as the car fishtailed and sped down the narrow road. I sighted her tires, ready to shoot, but the angle was shit, and there were too many risks.

Too many chances of hitting someone beyond her.

I lowered the gun.

“You good?” Yuriy asked, voice mild like we were on a date and he was checking if I wanted more wine.

“Fine,” I grunted. “You?”

He sighed, genuinely disappointed. “Honestly? Not nearly as satisfying as it should’ve⁠—”

A shadow shifted behind him.

Fuck.

The stubborn bastard with the hunting knife had pulled a pistol. He lifted it with shaking hands, eyes wild, blood pouring down his thigh.

He aimed straight at Yuriy’s back.

“Yuriy, move⁠—!”

I fired twice, burying both rounds in his chest. The bullets slammed into him with wet thuds. He convulsed but not before his finger spasmed.

The gunshot cracked the air. Yuriy jerked violently, hand flying to his arm. He hissed through his teeth, staggering a half step.

“Ah, fucking hell⁠—”

I reached for him. “Let me see⁠—”

“I’m—shit—fine,” he snarled, though the blood soaking through his coat proved otherwise. “It’s just a graze.”

Yuriy’s eyes turned frigid.

Ah, that’s the pakhan I’ve come to know.

He turned toward the shooter, who was still clinging to life. He lay on his back, wheezing, drowning in his own blood. Barely clinging to life. He should have let go.

Yuriy sauntered up to him—walked like a man who’d finally run out of patience.

“Yuriy.” I stepped forward. “We need to leave.”

He didn’t hear me. Or didn’t care. He crouched beside the man, boots sinking into the blood-streaked snow. The man gurgled a sound—plea or panic, didn’t matter.

Yuriy pulled a knife.

“Should’ve aimed better,” he said softly.