Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“All right, blossom. Let’s go.” I hear the shrug in his voice. The doorman holds the door open for us, and we walk out. I shiver at the night air, and Pavel curses softly in Russian. “You’re cold.”
“I’m fine.” I step into his side, and he takes the hint, wrapping an arm around me and holding me close to his hip as we walk. He was right—there’s a drugstore just three-quarters of a block away, the neon sign shining, casting a blue glow on the sidewalk in front.
We step in. It’s busy with Friday night activity. People stopping in to pick up six-packs or snacks for wherever they’re going next. I find the eyedrops, and we walk up to the counter.
And that’s when everything goes sideways.
Pavel’s paying for the eyedrops when the guy behind us jostles me forward. Ravil’s face contorts in anger, and he starts to turn, then goes perfectly still.
The guy has a gun out. He points it jerkily between our heads at the clerk. “Give me all the money in the register.” He sounds panicked. Out of breath. God, why is he crowding me forward against the counter? Wouldn’t it have been better for him to wait until we’d paid and moved away?
I let out an involuntary wounded cow sort of sound—a soft lowing of fear. I think the sound scares the robber because he seizes me and pulls me against his doughy belly. His jacket smells of gasoline, and the zipper digs into my back. He wraps me into a headlock, still keeping the gun pointed at the clerk.
I choke on my gasp. Time slows as I take in the horrified expression on the clerk and the flash of danger in Pavel’s eyes.
Pavel doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the guy’s gun arm with his right hand at the same time he throat-punches him with his left. The gun points toward the ceiling and goes off. Screams sound all around us.
I wrench free, skittering back as Pavel slams the barrel of the gun against the guy’s temple. His head makes a horrible sound when it cracks against the floor, his limbs sprawled in every direction.
Pavel’s movements were as smooth as a choreographed movie fight. This isn’t his first rodeo by any means. Or even his fifth. He points the pistol at the guy’s face with obvious expertise. “You don’t fucking touch my girl.” His accent is thick, voice full of menace.
Chills race up and down my spine because I have zero doubts now that Pavel told me the truth: he’s a stone cold killer.
And then I review what he said. You don’t touch my girl. He did that for me. If the guy hadn’t touched me, would he still have acted?
The clerk behind the register mutters, “Whoa,” like he’s impressed.
It was damn impressive. Pavel’s moves couldn’t have been better choreographed if he was in a staged movie fight.
“Call the cops,” Pavel tells the clerk without looking away from the guy he’s aiming at.
Before I can catch my breath, another pistol emerges, this time from a guy at the door.
They were a team. This one can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen years old. Thick dark curls hang in his face, and his gun hand shakes so hard I’m afraid he’ll accidentally shoot the whole place up. He points it at Pavel. “Drop the gun,” he orders, like he’s watched too much crime TV.
Pavel’s not impressed. In a clean sweep, he shifts the aim of his gun to the guy at the door, putting his foot on the chest of the guy on the floor, who is starting to rouse. “Put it down,” he minces.
“Y-you put it down,” the teenager insists. “Or I’ll shoot.”
“You’ll be dead before you pull the trigger,” Pavel advises him evenly. “I never miss a shot.” I believe him. The way he sights straight down his arm and his steady hold of the gun screams expert. Sureshot.
Killer.
“Damn,” the clerk murmurs with obvious appreciation.
The thug’s face sort of crumples in defeat.
“Slowly put the gun on the floor.”
The guy obeys, bending his knees and placing the gun down at his feet.
“Walk over here. Lie down beside your friend.” He points at his feet. His steady focus never leaves the guy’s face, and the pistol never wavers. “Anyone else here? You got other partners? Someone in a car outside?”
“N-no.” He shakes his head, his long bangs falling over one eye. He crouches at Pavel’s feet then starts to sit.
“Face down.” Pavel nudges the first guy with his foot. “You, too. Roll over.” When they’re both on their bellies, Pavel curses in Russian.
“Can you pick up that gun, blossom? Carefully?” His voice is much softer when he speaks to me. Like he’s trying to soothe me with quiet tones—the same way he does during a scene.
I move faster than I thought I could in stilettos and shaking legs and snatch up the gun. I bring it to him because holding it doesn’t feel safe to me.