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“Yes,” the man sighs. “But it is not for us to question.”
“Then you’re all going to die,” I snarl. “There’s no way around it.”
I wait, filtering out the rest of their conversation with each other, listening only for any sign of what their plan is. I hear two of the men walking away.
A dark feeling moving over me, my instincts pricking, something telling me they’re either going for backup or more heavy weaponry.
I have to act.
Now.
I stalk quietly to the duffel bag and take out a concussive flash-bang grenade, and then move silently back to the top of the stairs.
I draw the pin and then wait, head cocked, hyper-aware of every tiny movement downstairs.
I listen to the floorboards creaking as the men begin to sneak closer to the bottom of the stairs, no doubt looking for some angle.
I throw the grenade and turn away.
Bang.
I sprint down the stairs, the three men reeling back, their hands over their eyes.
I leap at them, moving in a flurry of muscle memory and savage violence, smashing them across the jaw and stomach and in the back of their knees, causing them to stumble and then fall.
With them still disoriented, it’s an easy thing for the predator in me to grab their guns and beat them over their heads with them, smash, smash, smash, knocking them out one by one so that they sag like sacks of shit on the floor.
Blood pools from the back of one man’s head, but I don’t have time to think about that.
At least I didn’t just shoot them, which I could’ve easily done.
I run to the window and toss their guns out into the snow, and then quickly search them for more weapons.
One of the men moans groggily and I smack him with the butt of my gun, knocking him out for good.
I throw their knives out into the snow and then run upstairs, into the bedroom, finding Dakota cradling Sparky close to her chest as she sits in the bathroom.
“Poor little man,” I whisper, seeing him shaking and shivering.
“We heard a bang,” Dakota says, her voice just as shaky as Sparky.
“It was me. Don’t worry. We’re safe. For now. But you need to get changed. Every item of clothing you’re wearing. Anything you took from Dobry’s estate, it needs to stay here.”
Her eyes widen. “You think …”
“They tracked us, yeah,” I snarl. “My guess is it’s in your shoe, but we need to be safe. Be quick, Dakota.”
I grab the duffel bag and carry it downstairs, and then quickly grab some zip-ties and tie the Bratva men’s arms behind their backs, leaving them face first on the blood dappled floor.
Two of them are groaning now, and the third – the one with the blood seeping from his skull – lies still.
I feel a pang of something in my chest staring down at the man.
He’s the first man I’ve ever killed without research beforehand.
But he was going to take Dakota, I assure myself grimly.
He was going to take her to Andrei, and then Andrei, the sick fuck, was going to abuse her in the most evil ways.
“I gave you a chance,” I snarl. “You should have taken it.”
I walk into the living room and grab Dakota’s heels, snapping one in half and then the other. Just as I suspected, the second heel has a small tracking chip inside.
I curse under my breath.
I should have thought of this earlier. It’s not the first time the Bratva has been known to implant tracking chips in items.
But I never thought they’d find a servant important enough for that.
Then again, Andrei, the Wolf wants Dakota …
Why? a voice roars in my mind.
And then another voice, She’s mine.
I move to the window, looking out at the forest.
The two men are lumbering toward the house, carrying a large crate between them, both of them bent sideways at the hip as they strain under the effort.
A bomb? A heavy machine gun?
I’m guessing the latter.
With heavy weaponry like that pitched up outside, they’ll be able to keep us pinned down here long enough for more Bratva men to arrive, soldiers ready to charge in here and take Dakota.
They drop the case at the tree line and whack the top of it, causing the walls to fall away and reveal a big hunk of metal with countless golden glinting bullets coming out of the top.
I turn, heart thudding with deathly insistence.
That gun will tear this house to paper petals in ten seconds flat if they start firing.
“Dakota,” I roar, running to the bottom of the stairs. “We need to go. Now.”
Chapter Sixteen
Dakota
I run down the stairs in the baggy jeans and the even baggier shirt, the clothes hanging off me and the belt barely keeping the pants up. The sneakers fit a little snugly, but everything else is comfortable enough.
