Page 13 of Lash

I walk her into her room, release her, turn on my heel, and exit. "Get changed. We need to be gone in the next two minutes."

nicolae dragos

Tatiana

Iwatch Lash close the door behind himself, the sting of rejection burning like acid in my gut.

I strip out of my skirt and underwear, leaving them on the floor for once in my life. I dress quickly in my most comfortable jeans, with a soft and supportive sports bra, a fitted white T-shirt, and my vintage leather biker jacket. Heavy black shit-kicker boots complete the look; as well as being cool, the boots are incredibly comfortable, and feature steel toes as an added bonus. I make quick work of braiding my hair and then coiling the long braid into a bun.

Knowing time is short, I grab a small leather backpack-style purse from my closet and stuff a change of clothes into it, along with some feminine products just in case, deodorant, a new toothbrush and travel tube of toothpaste, and…for reasons I don't care to examine too closely at this moment, a string of condoms.

A knock at the door announces the end of Lash's patience. "Are you ready?"

"Nearly," I answer, opening the door and pushing past him.

I go into the second bedroom, which I use as an office; crouching beside my desk, I enter the combination to my safe.Within is the emergency kit Tata has insisted I keep on hand: a fire- and waterproof bag containing cash—ten thousand euros, ten thousand US Dollars, and five thousand in an assortment of currencies; a compact handgun and two spare, loaded magazines; my passport; and a cheap, disposable, pre-paid burner phone with a full battery and a charger with a converter for wall and car use.

I stuff everything but the handgun into my bag; the handgun goes into the pocket of my jacket.

Lash grins at me. "You are your father's daughter, I see."

"For better or worse, yes. When I first moved out to live on my own, Tata gave me this safe with all of this in it. He insisted I keep this emergency kit with me wherever I live, and that I keep the passport current. I've never needed anything but the passport until now."

"Such is the nature of emergencies," Lash says. "Your father has many faults, but he is no one's fool." He glances at my jacket pocket and the weapon therein. "Do you have training with that gun?"

I nod. "Tata makes me go to the range with him every Sunday morning." I shake my head. "I had a gun in my hand when Filip shot Ana and Katya. I…I froze. It was so sudden. So unexpected, and I…I did nothing." My eyes burn.

Lash takes me by the arms, and his deep, wild, dark, and unknowable eyes pierce mine. "You are not a killer, Tatiana. That is a good thing. To carry death on your conscience is a hard thing. Be glad you do not."

"They were sweet, innocent girls," I say, feeling rage boil in my blood. "They had nothing to do with anything. There was no reason to kill them. Why, then? Why not kidnap me from my bed, or while shopping? Why kill Georg? He was innocent as well.”

Lash shakes his head. "Who can know the reasoning of bloody-minded insects like Filip?" He frowns. "Tatiana, about what I said…"

I move past him. "Later, Lash. As you keep saying, we have to go."

He nods, and we leave my flat together, Lash preceding me, gun held in both hands close against his chest with the barrel angled down—a grip unique to those trained in close-quarters combat and room-clearing tactics. My father employs men from all walks of life across his various business interests, both legitimate and otherwise; his bodyguards and enforcers are all exclusively former military and police, and I have enough experience with those types of men to know when a man is an operator, as they call themselves, and when he is merely a thug with a gun.

Lash is an operator, through and through: it is written in the scars on his body, in the brusque efficiency in everything he does, in the lethal, predatory way he moves, in the cold hardness of his eyes.

His hallway takedown of the two men impressed me; it was utterly silent, brutally quick, and accomplished without firing a shot.

I wonder what it says about me that it turned me on. Am I a sadist, to be aroused by the murder of two men?

It wasn't the death that affected me that way, though, I recognize. It was the skill he demonstrated. The feeling of safety and security engendered by his protection.

We're out on the street and Lash has stowed his gun at the small of his back, hidden by his shirt. We walk in silence for a long time, covering block after block, turning at random, circling, doubling back, and crisscrossing our own path until I am disoriented myself.

"Where are we going, Lash?" I ask, after almost an hour of walking.

"Nowhere," he says, eyes roving restlessly. "I am assessing the skill of our pursuers."

"Pursuers?" I check behind us and see nothing, no one.

He indicates a camera atop a pole supporting a traffic light. "They watch us."

"So we wander Zagreb aimlessly hoping to confuse them?"

A shrug. "That is part of it. What I am really assessing—well, testing, perhaps, is the more accurate word—is their response time. They know we escaped their men at your flat. That was an hour ago. If they are watching us as I assume, I need to know how fast they can send more men our way.