Fuck. We’re outnumbered.
But we’re skilled. It’s instinctive. I rarely do these sorts of fights in London now, but all the muscle memory is here from when I was in Volk. And it gives me an edge. I was one of their team once. I led part of Volk. I know how they’ll respond, because I taught most of the techniques to my juniors.
So as I work my way around the vehicle, running low to the ground, knees aching, heart pounding, this should be fine.
It’s not.
I have to get Taylor out.
Finally, this matters. Protecting her is everything.
My shot is fired before I fully see the man. In his forehead—no sloppiness like earlier. He thuds as he falls to the ground. The next I hit first in the chest. He fires back, spluttering with the pain, but the bullet goes wide, and I’ve shot him twice in the face before he can steady his arm.
I step around his dead body. The other of Yevgeny’s men has fled, and shots out of sync with the others tells me Vadik has got his target.
“Clear on this side,” Vadik calls.
I shift, and see that the runner is heading for the gap we made in the fence, rather than the death trap towards the plane or the main entrance.
Steadying my arms, I take aim.
He falls on my first shot.
“Cease!” I yell, and my men stop with the rain of bullets.
Then there’s quiet. I count up the bodies, the acrid tang of gunpowder stinging my throat. A savage thrill goes through me. We got them.
Except that fucker, Yevgeny.
I indicate to Vadik to go around the back, and for the others to be ready to cover me. The limo is a bit offset from the other cars, and I take the distance in firm steps, weapon drawn.
There’s a female sob that punctures the air.
My heart stops as I see who is in there.
Yevgeny has Taylor, and holds a gun held to her temple.
“Give me the plane, and the rest of them, and I’ll give you this little dancer,” Yevgeny says. “I know that’s what you want.”
Taylor’s eyes are wide and shiny with terror.
“Get out of the car, and we can talk,” I reply, my gun pointed at him, though I won’t shoot. I’m not risking Taylor. “I have enough jobs available. Does Aleksandr really look after you so well? I’m sure you have other aspirations. More money, perhaps?” I sound calm, but I’m anything but.
I can’t lose Taylor now. Not after everything. Even if I’ll never see her once we’re in London, I can’t live without her in the world. She’s half of my soul.
The better, kinder, prettier half.
“Yevgeny,” says an older woman. Madam Polina, I realise. The ballet mistress. “You must yield. There’s no way out.”
“I’m not some traitor,” Yevgeny spits. “And neither should you be.”
There’s another girl with them in the back of the limo, and as Madam Polina dives for the limo door, the blonde dancer makes a run for it, sprinting for the relative safety of the plane.
Madam Polina moves to do the same, but shrieks as I pull her to me, acting on pure instinct, and push my gun barrel to her forehead. “She’s a larger shield than you have, Yevgeny. Get out.”
Yevgeny howls with fury, but obeys, holding a trembling Taylor as he half walks, half crawls out of the limo, and drags Taylor to her feet in front of him once he’s in the open. He glances from side to side, looking for an escape.
There’s none. My men have him surrounded.
