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Then I throw the deadbolt on the bathroom door.
His stricken eyes widen in horror, and he steps toward me, an objection on his lips.
Before he can reach me, I slip through the narrow opening. Casting a last alluring glance around the door’s edge, I check to make sure he’s following. Then I rush down the hallway and melt back into the crowd on the dance floor.
34
MISHKA
“Isn’t this the butchery where we started?” I ask as Lenka turns down Union Park Street.
I can tell from the excitement humming in the car that this is going to be the one. The guys are jazzed enough, they didn’t even wait to fill me in on the details before we left. We were on a roll as soon as I threw my car in park.
“I have good reason to believe the bastards were holding out on us,” Rasputin states flatly, his ire clear in his frigid gaze. “And this time, we’re following the trail until we find the worms who thought they could shoot up our Pakhan and get away with it.”
My insides squirm uncomfortably at the statement that could so easily apply to me. If I want to survive killing Sergio, I’ll have to take down countless Sakharov men. And now that I have Alina, the thought of dying sounds far less appealing.
Still, once she learns the truth of what I intend to do, she won’t want to be with me, so after the deed is done, I might as well be dead.
My stomach knots painfully as I think of Alina. I know she’s keeping something from me. I could see it in her eyes for that split second in the club bathroom—just before she taunted me with the image of her on the dance floor without panties. But I haven’t had the chance to speak with her again since that night.
Sergio and Rasputin have been keeping me very busy because we’re finally closing in on whoever targeted the Sakharov cars over six weeks ago now. Everyone’s growing impatient. It’s time to end the men responsible. And this time, Rasputin sounds certain that the information he was given is solid.
He’s confident enough that even Viktor is joining us. Today, we’ve been tasked with catching the men responsible and bringing them before Sergio for retribution.
Crammed into the third row of seats, Kristof and I are the last ones to pile from the car as Lenka pulls up in front of the butchery. I hate this part, the bloodshed and violence that so often leads to absolutely nothing. We’ve already spoken to the family who owns and runs the butcher shop. They seemed more than willing to talk.
So, why go back and pretend like whatever we beat out of them is going to be good information?
I grind my teeth and bite my tongue as the bell chimes above us, announcing our entry.
“Afternoon,” the middle-aged woman behind the counter says brightly, wiping her hands on her pristine white apron. Her graying hair is pulled back and covered in a white bandanna to keep it out of the way.
“Where are they?” Malik growls, striding past the glass display case of pre-cut meat to search behind the counter.
“W–Who?” she stutters, her face paling instantly as her demeanor shifts.
“Your husband and son,” Rasputin states. “I have it on good authority that they lied to me. Intentionally. And I intend to stay here until I learn exactly who they’re protecting.”
“Th–They went out,” she stammers nervously. “To pick up an order and make some deliveries. But I can tell them you stopped by as soon as they return.” She smiles sweetly, her cheek giving a nervous twitch.
Rasputin sneers, sharing a dubious look with Viktor. Then he jerks his chin toward Malik, who vanishes through the door into the back of the butchery. Kristof and I follow just a few steps behind, though my skin crawls at the thought of discovering the poor woman was lying.
The butcher table’s stainless steel finish gleams in the fluorescent light. Not a tool is out of place, the knives and carving tools hanging from the wall in perfect rows. It looks pristine, just like a meat supply store ought to, and I dare to release the breath I was holding as the room looks entirely empty.
“Looks like she was telling the truth,” I observe. “So, do we just wait for them to come back, or…?”
Malik quirks an eyebrow. Then his eyes shift to the door leading into the meat cooler.
Blyat. If they’re hiding, it most likely means they know they’re in trouble.
Gun in hand, I reach for the handle, and with a fluid twist and jerk, I pull the heavy door open. Cold air rushes out to greet me, and Malik and Kristof raise their guns in unison.
“Come on out, old man,” Malik commands.
Hesitant scuffles announce their appearance before the butcher and his son—not much younger than I am—come out. The father steps out first, shielding his son with his body, for all the good that does.
Malik and Kristof grab him by the arms, and I snag the son, wrenching his arm behind him before he can attempt to run.
