Page 27

Timofey nods and takes his position on the opposite side of the door.

On my signal, he kicks it in with three strong blows and rushes inside.

I follow on his heels, scanning the right side while he takes the left.

The place is a total dump. Wallpaper hangs in shreds from the walls, and junk is piled in every corner.

“What the—” A man ducks out from one of the side rooms, hand reaching for a gun at his hip.

Timofey jumps him, knocking him across the face with one of his huge fists and following it up with two silenced shots to his stomach. He goes down with a thud, eyes glassy, and Timofey holds up one finger in my direction: his count, one; mine, zero. I’ll catch up.

Booted feet pound through the house, and I trace the incoming sounds, raising my gun to fire at the first sign of movement.

Three men spill into the narrow hall, and I fire one shot before reholstering.

The quarters are too close, and the chances of hitting Timofey by mistake are too high. Hand-to-hand it is.

I relish the close-quarters combat. There’s something visceral in it, the feel of flesh hitting flesh, the pop of a knife sinking in through layers of skin and muscle, the hot rush of blood over my fingers. In those moments, my mind quiets and my body moves on instinct.

The man I shot races toward me, blood oozing from his arm, but his attacks are weak, uncoordinated, and he falls to my knife in a matter of seconds.

No challenge. Unsatisfied, I turn toward the other two.

Timofey rushes one, catching him in a tackle that drives him to the ground, and I kick at the other, striking his hand to knock a blade from his grip.

He draws another and lunges toward me. I let his own momentum carry him in and step to the side, catching his arm and twisting it, snapping the bone with a satisfying crunch.

The man howls, and I sink my knife into his gut, driving it to the hilt.

His breathing shudders as I pull the blade free and stab again, taking him to the ground.

Timofey stands up, blood spattered over his face from what looks to be a broken nose. The man beneath him is still. Two and two, all tied up.

“Don’t let him escape,” I bark to Timofey, knowing none of these men are Ivan.

We race for the other exit, kicking aside the garbage heaped on the floor. Piles of drugs in various states of packing lie strewn about. Up ahead, Ivan and two men make a break for the front door.

Timofey and I draw as one. I shoot one of the men in the back and aim at Ivan’s leg, taking out the back of his knee.

He goes down hard, crashing into the kitchen cabinet beside the door while his other man returns fire.

A bullet whizzes down the hall just past my ear, followed by another that sends Timofey and me scattering.

“I got him,” Timofey calls, firing off three rounds with his pistol.

I’m locked in on Ivan, completely focused on the man’s attempts to lever back up to his feet.

He fumbles at his waistband for a gun, but I race toward him, catching his arm as he draws.

His first shot fires into the ceiling as we wrestle for control.

I grab his hand and slam it against the cabinet, forcing him to release the gun before I kick it down the hall in Timofey’s direction.

Ivan swears and launches himself at me, a move so surprising that I get taken to the ground despite his injury.

We go down hard, my hand slamming into the linoleum floor, and for a moment, I’m stunned.

His fingers wrap around my throat. I shake off the daze and bring my knee up into his groin, doubling him over and freeing myself from his grasp.

I follow it with a blow to the side of his head that sends him sprawling, and I leap to straddle him, taking the position he just had. He tries to cover his head as I rain blows down on his face, but I’m relentless, driving into him with unbridled rage.

“This,” I say, punctuating each word with another punch, “is for Anya.”

His face is bloodied and bruised, eyes swelling, but I’m not done. He’s too dazed to fight back as I smash his head once, twice, into the hard floor before finally drawing my knife and slitting his throat from end to end.

I sit back and let the blood flow, watching the life ebb from his body, not satisfied until the last of the light leaves his eyes.

“Jesus, dude.” Timofey comes up behind me, setting a hand on my shoulder. “Brutal.”

“He deserved it,” I spit out, getting to my feet. I’m covered in blood and my knuckles are bruised, but I finally feel some semblance of satisfaction. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Should we take some of this?” He nods around at the packages of drugs.

I look it over. “Too risky until we know how the other hits went tonight. Could be another bunch of Lankovs about to pour in here. Let’s get out while we can. Swing back and clean up if all is clear.”

We head back to our car, and I spare one final look at the Lankov house. Revenge is sweet, humming through my veins like a hit of the best drug. But there’s something even sweeter waiting for me at home.

I drop Timofey off, then drive home, dipping into the shower to rinse the blood from my body before padding quietly into the bedroom where Anya is lying awake. She twists as I slip beneath the covers and wrap my arms around her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admits, leaning her head against my chest. “I was too worried about you.”

I rub circles over her back and pull her close. “I’m here. You’re safe now.”

Lankov or Shevchenko or whoever-the-fuck, no one hurts my family and lives to tell the tale.