Page 13 of One Dark Kiss (Grimm Bargains #2)

THIRTEEN

Alexei

H ot, red, poisonous biting ants are crawling beneath my skin, shredding layer after layer as they tunnel through my flesh. The elevator door opens, and I manacle Rosalie s hand, yanking her into the quiet parking garage.

Hey. She tries to pull away, surprise in her tone.

I m done. Finished being inside four walls. Any walls. We ordered lunch in and worked on my case until about five, and then my throat started to close. So I keep her hand. Her skin is soft and cool, calming enough to tether me to this world. For now.

Alexei. She sets her feet to stop me. I forgot my phone upstairs.

I keep us moving, maneuvering between cars until reaching my bike. Replaying the day that my freedom ended, over and over for her today, had an inferno boiling in my gut. Relating my unfortunate vulnerability to Rosalie specifically had poured oil on those flames. Get on.

No. She uses her free hand to push against my ribs.

I turn, lowering my head toward hers, fire burning through me. Get. On. The. Bike. My voice is a low growl, and even I don t recognize it. Then I straddle the bike, still holding her hand.

Her blue eyes widen, and her pupils contract. I don t—

I twist my torso, snatch her waist, lift her, and plant her on the back in one easy motion.

I can t breathe. Can barely think. Yanking the key from my front pocket, I slam it into place and twist. The engine ignites and roars awake between my thighs.

I enable the launch motion with my right thumb, use my left hand to pull the clutch, and engage the first gear with my foot for a fast takeoff.

Rosalie yelps and grabs my ribcage under my jacket with both hands, scooting closer to me.

I zip through the parking garage and out onto the street, letting the bike have her lead.

Wind whips against my face, and I partially lift, feeling freedom. Finally, I can take a deep breath. Cars honk as I zip between them, noting how perfectly Rosalie fits her legs against mine.

The woman is a natural.

When I move, she moves. Perfect unison. I steer away from the busy street onto side streets, leaving the city. My heart finally slows to a normal rhythm. As the sound of horns and screeching brakes fade away, I notice her yelling at me. Well, against me, her mouth to the back of my jacket.

When we reach a quiet warehouse district, I slow and partially turn my head. What are you yelling about?

You fucking fuck head, she screams, digging her nails into my skin.

Fascinating. I turn another corner and slow down near a rusting metal warehouse labeled Bob s.

I have no idea who Bob is, but he s definitely not around right now.

The garage doors are shut tight, and darkness shows through the grimy window of the man-sized door.

Water drips from the roof to the battered asphalt from the rain of last night, the sound forlorn.

So I pull to a stop.

She retracts her nails, pulls her hands free of my jacket, and then smacks my back. You re such a complete dick. Grasping my jacket, she swings off the bike and takes several steps away, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Fuck, she s beautiful.

Her black hair is a wild mess around her flushed face, and the blue of her eyes defies description. Somehow, her white blouse and tan trousers still look pressed.

What s wrong? I drawl, twisting the key and silencing the powerful engine.

Her chin drops. Wrong? What s wrong? Her mouth opens slightly as she tries to draw in air. We don t have helmets, she says in a rush.

Helmets? Amusement clashes through me. The real kind. I blink the sensation away, because liking her isn t a risk I ll take. Oh, she ll be mine in every sense possible, and I ll protect her with my life. But liking her isn t going to happen. You re safe.

Safe? she screeches.

I hold back a wince. That s an impressive decibel she hit. Yes.

She looks erratically around. For what? Safety? There isn t any from me. You prick, she snaps.

There s nowhere to go.

I m looking for something to hit you with, she snarls, her teeth a flash of white between her cherry-red lips.

My dick goes rock hard. Use your fists, I say softly.

She blinks.

Smart girl.

I keep her in my sights, noting everything from her rapid breathing to her parted lips. She s scared. And aroused. Confused about both feelings. Come on, Rosalie, I coax. I ll give you one clean punch. Won t even try to stop you.

She swallows and looks at my jaw. It s not made of glass, and she ll probably break her knuckles if she tries. Her sense of preservation must be pretty decent, because she doesn t.

The hair on the back of my neck rises. Slowly, I turn to look the way we came. Silence. Heavy silence.

Get back on the bike. I twist the key, going cold.

No, she yells, stomping one foot.

A car careens around the farthest warehouse. It s a nondescript brown Chevy with the windows tinted dark enough to hide its occupants. The same one as the other day when I was shot.

Now, I yell.

She looks at me, at the car, and then barrels into motion, jumping on behind me.

I launch the bike nearly into the air, driving out of Bob s alcove away from the car.

A bullet whizzes by my ear. Shit. I turn between two warehouses, increasing our speed, turning again as soon as I can.

I keep to the narrow alleys between warehouses, and the car holds pace, the passenger shooting as it speeds by at the far end.

There s only one way out of this area, and I m sure somebody remained behind in case we make it that far.

I flip around a broad, gray warehouse into an even smaller alleyway, pivoting at the last building and seeing what I need.

I zip in front of several warehouses and right into an open doorway before immediately turning off the bike.

Silence echoes around us. Turning to wrap an arm around Rosalie s waist, I swivel us both off the bike.

Moldy and torn boxes line one filthy wall, while only dirt and garbage cover the crumbling concrete floor.

Stay here. I can hear the car coming closer, so I run outside and shut the door before she can answer. It hangs haphazardly in place, not coming close to fully closing.

My gun already in my hand, I careen toward a burned-out steel building that only retains a shallow shell.

The car s brakes squeal as it turns around a building and then heads straight for me.

I drop and roll on the pavement, coming up and firing rapidly at the driver.

The front windshield explodes, and the car jerks wildly to the side, smashing into a stone pillar that crumbles almost instantly.

I jump to my feet, lift my gun, and keep firing toward the passenger-side window.

Nobody moves.

The car s engine continues rumbling as the wheels turn uselessly, burning rubber.

I keep my back to the building as I angle closer, gun out, wishing for a blade in my boot.

I m out of bullets. Reaching the car, I use the bottom of my shirt to pull open the passenger-side door.

A man falls out, and I step back, letting his head and shoulders hit the ground.

His eyes are wide in death, and blood covers the lower half of his face and chest. I glance to see the driver slumped over the steering wheel, the back of his head a bloody mess.

They both wear black suits and bloodied pants, and neither is breathing.

I glance quickly into the back seat to find it empty. Tucking my weapon at my waist, I scan the area. It s desolate and deserted, and right now, the only sounds are the engine and the drip, drip, drip of forgotten rain off rooftops compounded by the eerie whistle of wind.

Using my boot, I kick the guy on the ground to partially roll him over onto his shoulders.

His legs remain in the car. I frown and squint.

I know this guy. Dmitry Egorov. In his late sixties, at least, he s a Shestyorka—a low level errand boy.

Who sent him to kill me? Hendrix or his mother?

Or is somebody else in the organization making a move?

Now would be a good time, since Hendrix and I will blame each other.

This man is not an inspiring choice. Nobody will miss him.

Is there a contract out on me? I m not surprised if there is more than one.

I claim his Makarov pistol from his limp hand and check the clip. Eight rounds. It must be a fresh clip. Excellent. I slam it into place before walking around to the other side of the still-running car, the engine grinding noisily.

Using my shirt, I open the other door and shove an elbow into the driver s face, pushing him back.

I don t recognize this one. His black hair has gray at the temples, and if he s in the local Russian mob, I should know him, but I don t.

I don t like that. Several shots had hit his face, but still, there should be something familiar about him.

I push him to the side and look down at his back pockets, not surprised to see them empty. These guys didn t bring ID.

Grunting, I twist the keys and shut off the engine.

I crouch, and still keeping my hand covered by my jacket, click the button to release the trunk. I d search these guys, but no way do they even have a phone, so I stand again and walk around to find two AK-47s in the trunk, along with several soiled and oil-covered rags.

Using the rags, I lift the AK-47s and look around.

I m not comfortable carrying these on the bike, so I lope into a jog toward the end of the warehouse district, find one of many abandoned warehouses, this one with a pink roof that was probably red metal at one point.

I kick open the door to find it empty, save for battered and dented appliances scattered throughout.

I hide the AK-47s behind a scratched light-blue electric stove before emerging outside again.

This time I move quieter toward a taller warehouse with a rickety ladder on the backside.

Using the rags to cover my fingerprints, I climb to the top and then shimmy on my belly toward the other side.

Then I wait. The exit to this warehouse area is barely two lanes with scrub grass and shrubs on either side.

I take a deep breath and then exhale, calming my senses, and then I wait and I watch. Finally, something moves to the right. I wondered how long the lookout would wait. Surely he had heard the firefight, and his friends had not returned.

He finally stands and looks around.

I recognize him. His name is Igor, and his father is the dead passenger. I remember him as a kid. He s about three years older than me and has always been an asshole. Lifting a phone to his ear, he speaks too softly for me to hear.

The phone has to be a burner.

Tucking it into his front pocket, he looks around and lights a cigarette. Not only is he an asshole, he s a moron. Even if I reclaim ownership of the local Russian mob, I don t want this guy.

We re close enough he should be looking up to make sure he s not being watched. He doesn t bother. I pull the Makarov to the side, balance the weapon on the edge of the roof, and fire twice.

His head explodes like a melon, and he falls.

I wait a while longer, but there s nobody else out there.

Even so, I crouch low as I turn toward the ladder to climb down, again keeping my prints safely covered by the oily rags.

Just as I reach the bottom, I turn and see Rosalie standing in the road, her jaw slack, her face pale, and her eyes wide as she stares at the man I just shot.

Well. Shit.