Page 110 of Claim Me

“Tell me where they are. I’m on my way.”

It had been a long time since I’d felt numb inside. Ten plus years. When I’d gone after the people responsible for Jasmine’s death, I’d done so methodically with the help of my family. We’d planned the act of retaliation for an entire week before makingour move, destroying three facilities full of drugs and killing all those involved.

We’d had the time to keep emotions from becoming a reckless hindrance because Jasmine was already dead. At this point, I didn’t have the luxury of time. Whether Rurik’s plans were to marry or kill Marissa, he’d do so quickly and I knew exactly the kind of abuse she’d suffer.

Mikhail didn’t fight me as we rolled toward the warehouse. While we had the firepower, we could easily be outnumbered. Only the element of surprise would work to our benefit. The warehouse wasn’t on any list that we’d obtained of locations owned by Popov.

Perhaps the men bragging were contractual workers and nothing else, but I didn’t give a shit. They’d learn that making bad choices was a life-altering decision.

We remained silent as we approached the building. The area of the port was unusually quiet, somewhat run down. With little traffic and almost no vehicles, we could handle the operation quickly and without interference.

However, I wasn’t in the mood to allow patience to interfere.

Ryker, Simon, and another soldier appeared from the darkness, assault rifles in their hands. One of Mikhail’s men had joined them in their act of surveillance. “They offloaded a shipment of about a dozen crates,” he said quietly. “A small boat that came in a couple hours ago under the radar from Alaska.”

“How many men?” Mikhail asked.

“Ten.”

Ryker looked at me. We had five including us. Good enough odds. “I want information. Whatever happens, I need at least one alive. The rest I couldn’t give a shit about.”

“Got it. There’s a door on the side where they went in,” he advised.

Nodding, I headed around to the side toward the door he’d mentioned. When I was close, I was able to hear voices. There was no time like the present. With my Glock firmly planted in my hand, I pulled open the door slowly, creeping inside.

The element of surprise was exactly what I’d hoped for. The fuckers were laughing, shooting the shit, the conversation half Russian, half English.

But I caught enough as I stormed in to know they were laughing about Marissa.

There was no hesitation.

Pop! Pop!

“Fuck!” one of them finally yelled.

I started firing before most realized we were inside. We formed an arc around them, firing off round after round. When one of the enemy soldiers dropped and rolled, pointing the weapon at Mikhail, I threw myself in front, firing off a shot and catching him in his shooting arm.

The gun flew from his hand and he tried to crawl toward it. Within three long strides, I was over him, smashing my weapon against his head. Maybe he would be the lucky candidate to provide me with information.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Bullets continued to fly, Ryker and Simon keeping a protective stance with Mikhail.

When another one came at me, I had time to kick him in the stomach, sending him flying backward and against the concrete wall. He crumpled to the floor, his head lolled to the side.

Seconds later, it was over, a quick count indicating eight soldiers hadn’t known what had hit them. I turned in a full circle, taking several deep breaths before turning my attention toward my Pakhan.

He grinned in a way I’d only seen him do a few times. This wasn’t about having a proud moment as a brother, but about accepting the fact I would burn down the city in search of the woman who’d captured something so few in my life thought possible again.

My heart and soul.

How strange karma had taken me back down a path I’d once walked. The difference being I’d taken the stroll into destiny with my eyes wide open. All because of an obsession that had altered the man inside.

I slowly turned my head toward one of the men who was writhing on the concrete surface. Covered in blood, he held his injured arm as a bird would a broken wing. I took my time approaching, wiping my face with my arm before peering down at him. When I placed my boot onto his arm, his cry rang loud and proud, echoing in the warehouse. Leaning over, I allowed myself to grin.

“Who is Joseph Svetlova?”

He gritted his teeth, blinking several times. While I wasn’t averse to torture nor did I care about inflicting pain, I also didn’t want him losing consciousness. That would defeat the purpose. Yet I offered a moment of incentive by grinding my foot.