Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 107608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
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.