Page 24

ROMAN

I didn't hear the first gunshot.

Or the second.

By the time the third rang out, I was already in motion. My fingers tightened on the trigger as I fired at the men camped out around the warehouse.

That asshole was here.

At first, I couldn't believe he was so stupid. But when one of our men confirmed they found the SUV with the license plate that had taken her, and it was caught on a CCTV feed driving inside the same fucking warehouse and parking there, I knew it had to be Mateo.

And he had to be high off his fucking ass.

Unfortunately, although this particular drug user didn't have a lot of common sense, he was paranoid. He had hired more men or called in men I hadn't seen before.

They were not nearly as inept as the others.

These men had muscles that suggested training.

They wore tactical gear, not stained T-shirts that hadn't been washed in a week, and they carried some big fucking guns.

They still looked bottom of the fucking barrel, but an entry level assault rifle was still a step up from the peashooters their predecessors carried.

They also had training that the others lacked, and they were on guard. They knew someone would come, and they were waiting.

Watching.

Those fuckers saw me before I saw them. That had never happened to me before. I was always so focused, so intent on my target with a plan in place and enough contingencies to cover any potential complications.

That was how I worked. It was how I had gotten so good at my job, how I earned my reputation, and how I survived.

When it wasn't just my ass on the line, my focus was shot to shit.

Still, it only took me a moment or two to clear the door. There were three men. Two of them I was able to get clean shots at, one right after the other. They had counted on being able to take me out before I got a shot off.

If they were better marksmen, or more familiar with their guns, they probably would have.

The third man was a little smarter and much faster.

The moment my first shot cracked through the air, he'd already rolled behind a shipping crate, wood splintering around him.

Smart bastard. He'd pop up like a jack-in-the-box—muzzle flash, crack of gunfire—then disappear again.

Cat-and-mouse bullshit that was eating up precious seconds I didn't have.

I adjusted my grip, feeling the familiar weight of the Glock, and put three rounds through the center of his makeshift cover.

The .45 caliber punched through the wood like it was cardboard.

His scream was cut short as the third bullet found his skull, painting the concrete wall behind him in a crimson spray that would make Pollock proud.

A for effort, but no participation trophy for him.

I moved to the door, first checking the kills to make sure none of them lived. The last thing I needed was a wounded jackass sneaking up behind me.

They didn't. Each kill was clean, fast, and efficient.

It ran in my family. And was beaten into me through endless training.

This wasn't about making them suffer. I was not going to take extra time with men who didn't deserve it for doing their job.

Mateo, however…Him I'd like to take my time with.

I moved faster, clearing hallways as I got deeper and deeper into the building.

The metallic tang of copper mixed with gunpowder filled my nostrils, a scent that should have been familiar, comforting even.

Instead, it made my stomach churn. Every second that passed was a second closer to losing her.

This wasn't like before. It wasn't like escaping with Pavel.

There were more of them. They had been trained. And I was injured.

Between the concussion, the pain meds, and the stitches, I was moving at maybe half speed. My vision blurred at the edges with each jarring step, and I could feel my sutures pulling tight with every movement. It had to be enough.

Still, I moved through them like the grim reaper himself, claiming lives and carving a path of death and destruction as I made my way toward my woman.

When I got to the large open area, I expected one, maybe two men.

There were closer to a half dozen. They were armed, and they were waiting for me.

Fuck.

My heart pounded in my chest, adrenaline raced through my veins as I took cover, running through a hail of bullets and praying I didn't get shot... again.

I had my back pressed against an old metal desk, but the guns that they were using weren't the greatest, so its thick metal sheeting made halfway decent cover.

At least it would, until they turned it into Swiss cheese.

Beads of sweat moved down my brow as I checked my magazine, making sure I was still loaded. The sour taste of fear coated my tongue, mixing with the copper from where I'd bitten through my cheek.

I had a few more shots left and then I'd have to switch magazines.

I wasn't doing that until I absolutely had to.

There were too many men for me to waste bullets. I was unprepared. For the first time in my life, when it mattered the most, I hadn't brought enough supplies.

Fuck.

I couldn't panic. Fear was clawing its way up my throat, but I couldn't panic. Zoya needed me.

I had to be smart, make this shit work.

Peeking over the edge of the desk, I tried to map as many of them as possible.

I barely got back behind cover before the bullets started again.

From what I could see, there were six men on the ground level with me. The metal door to the stairway behind them leading to the upper-level offices was open. There was no telling how many men were on the other floors. They could come in at any moment. At least the catwalk was empty, for now.

The second the hail of bullets stopped, I surged up from behind the desk, muscle memory taking over as I acquired targets.

Two quick squeezes—center mass, center mass.

The first man's chest exploded into a fountain of red, his body spinning like a broken marionette before hitting the ground.

The second caught it in the throat, his gurgling scream drowning in his own blood as he clawed at the gaping wound.

I got off another shot then ducked just before bullets chewed up the air where my head had been a split second before, metal fragments from the desk cutting lines across my cheeks. The taste of copper and cordite filled my mouth as I pressed deeper into cover, warm blood trickling down my jaw.

I knew I killed at least two. From the swearing, I would say I hit another, but I couldn't be sure.

The air was filled with the odors of motor fuel and gunpowder. Sweet and cloying to my nose and I was pretty sure it was killing brain cells.

"Tell me where the girl is," I yelled.

"Tell us where the money is," another one yelled back.

Money? What money?

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just here for the girl."

"Well, that girl has millions stashed away. We need to know where it is. We want our cut."

"How the fuck should I know? Have you thought maybe she put it in a bank?"

Of course, this was about money. Not even money they were owed. Lazy fuckers.

I popped up again, but this time from the other side of the desk and fired four times.

At least two dropped before my gun made that sickening click sound, telling me there was nothing left to fire.

I ducked back down behind cover as I switched to a new magazine.

Crawling over to the other side of the desk, I peered around the corner and tried to get an idea of how many were left.

Two too many and more were coming.

"Come out, come out, little bitch," Mateo called, and the grating sound of his slurred words was followed by the rapid pop pop pop of an AK-103 assault rifle.

Being outmanned was one thing. But being outgunned—by a fucking Russian gun, no less—was different.

Mateo was likely high, which made him unpredictable.

The surrounding men seemed to rally with his presence.

"Don't worry boys, when we show that bitch this man's head, I'm sure she'll give us what we need. Assuming she doesn't bleed out first."

Bleed out?

I checked my watch. It was a little after ten p.m. It had been about twenty-four hours since the doctor gave her that IV.

If he hurt her...if she was bleeding...I could be too late.

Fuck.

I popped up once, took a couple shots, and then hit the floor again as quickly as I could.

The hail of bullets was immediate, and they barely missed me.

I didn't have enough ammo to get through this.

Fuck.

This was what I got for taking on this mission alone. I should've had backup. I should have grabbed Gregor by the fucking throat and made him listen. Made some type of deal.

He wasn't like our fathers or our grandfather. Gregor was reasonable. There could have been a compromise.

I didn’t know what it would have been.

But I could have done something, made a deal, like once I saved her, I’d bring her back to the house for questioning. Or maybe I could have said I would marry her.

I wouldn't be the first Ivanov man to carry a woman kicking and screaming down the aisle.

Hell, it was happening so often now, it was practically a new tradition.

There were other options, smarter options.

There had to have been an answer that didn't get both me and her killed.

I switched out the magazines again, but I was on my last one, and my two backup Glocks were smaller, only six rounds each.

I pressed my lips to the cold metal of the Glock, whispering a silent prayer to whatever gods still listened to men like me. Let this be enough. Let me reach her in time.

Mateo walked around the room. His footsteps echoed as he taunted me, asking me to come out, saying didn’t I want to see my girlfriend? While she was still breathing?

I hated that I let his words get to me, but they really got to me.

She was bleeding. I knew what kind of danger she was in. I could not have come this far just to lose her.

For the first time in my life, I really understood my father. I had always known he loved my mother too much to live in a world without her, but for the first time I really felt what he felt.