Page 165 of Nemesis

But when I look up, Popov is already observing me. My heart thumps so hard I hear the ramping beat in my ears. Vasiliy and I might have planned this moment in two separate directions, but neither coexist with the suspicious edge in my grandfather’s gaze.

Boom.

The first explosion rattles the house with impossible force. Wine glasses tumble off the table, shattering across the floor.

“Good heavens,” the priest shouts, lurching out of his seat. “What was that?”

The servers scream and run for the kitchen, while the other table guests rise, moving to the glass for a better look at the blaze of fire consuming the sky. I don’t even flinch at the next explosion that follows the first, nor the returning gunfire thundering through the quiet night.

But the man holding my eye contact doesn’t look the slightest bit panicked as he dabs his napkin to his lips. My heart beats louder, morphing into the deafening blasts outside.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

“I was hoping we could do this the easy way,” he says, tossing his napkin onto the table. “But I suppose trouble is in your blood.”

At the explosion of the next grenade, the priest flees, scrambling in the same direction as the staff. Men dressed in riot gear pour into the room from the back entrance. Somewhere, one floor down, Vasiliy is tunneling into the house towards the holding cells. Ivan and my cousins are out in that deluge of chaos, fighting for their lives.

He drains the dregs of his wine and grins. “It won’t matter if they manage to get someone through my gates.”

My mouth dries.

What?

Suddenly, I’m tugged out of my chair with a bruising grip on my shoulders. Two soldiers who were sitting at the opposite side of the table are now behind me, twisting my arms at a painful angle. Boris rises, walks over to Popov’s chair, and bends an ear to his lips. I don’t need to know Russian to understand that my careful plans are diving off the rails with every whispered word. Then my intended turns and leaves the room.

“I learned my lesson years ago, dear.” My grandfather rises from his seat. Dragged forward, I lose my balance. “Nowadays, I like to keep my assets close. They won’t find him down there.”

My hands won’t stop shaking.

But as I look around the empty cell, spotting so many signs of recent occupation, the dominant emotion in my blood is rage.

It would’ve worked. Her plan would’ve worked. He was just here, I know it! Fuck!

A rustling shakes me from my stupor. I fold against the wall, cocking my gun. Three sets of feet. Maybe four.

Without allowing them any preparation, I flip into the doorway and send off my shots. Unfamiliar eyes widen, and the first body drops.

I squeeze the trigger three more times. A gasp. Blood sprays the steps, but the fourth man leaps to the wall for cover, missing my bullets.

Fine by me.

I lunge, tackling the fucker to the cement and bashing his skull against the hard steps. He cries out on impact.

“Where is my wife?”

I can’t hear my own words through the ringing in my ears, but I know he hears me because of the confused tug of his brows. Useless. I pull his head back, smashing it twice more onto the top step. Blood drips, soaking my knees before I rise.

“What’s taking so long? The Pakhan wants the perimeter lock⁠—”

A new face appears at the top of the steps. He’s dressed in a pressed button-down and a pair of slacks, and his exposed skin is littered with raised scars. This guy seems to have more authority than the bottom feeders I just finished playing with. He looks like my new toy.

I’m already halfway up the steps when he manages to draw his weapon. The trigger compresses, and my torso twists, narrowly avoiding a perfect shot to my chest.

“Missed me, bitch.”