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Thirty-Nine
In less than an hour, Dean had gathered his few belongings into a pile beside his front door. What little furniture he owned would be delivered to a local charity within the week since the time had come for him to truly disappear. Properly this time. He couldn’t leave any clues to connect this life with his next, and only the detectives investigating the syndicate knew how to contact him and where his next stop would be.
The message he’d received from Ramos to get the hell out of Harlow only solidified the decision to leave. The fact that the message had been sent two days ago, before he’d gotten access to his phone, meant he needed to hurry his exit along. Hell, he’d been damn lucky to survive his short but protected stint in prison as it was.
He stood before his couch now and zipped his last bag of belongings closed, ferrying it over to join the others, where he paused at his door to take one final look around. This house and Harlow had given him so many memories in a short amount of time—good and bad memories—the bad stuff all his fault. And Harlow could have been any other middle-of-nowhere town, except Sarah had made it so much more.
He wouldn’t have cared about leaving if not for her. That’s what hurt most about all of this. More than getting caught. More than having a target on his back. He’d hurt her. Was leaving her. She no longer wanted him and was safer and better off without him.
And then there were her parting words…
“I hope you stay in a cell forever, and I hope my face haunts you for just as long.”
No doubt his face would damn her for all the wrong reasons. Not because she loved him but because she rightfully hated him.
He squeezed his eyes shut at the assault of emotions bringing an ache to every breath. Best to get this over with. Best just to leave. He picked up two bags and made his way out the front door. His car waited just ahead on the drive when the thud of footfalls brought Ramos’s message screaming back to life.
Get the hell out…
A heavy weight slammed into his back. Too late. He crashed forward, his chin striking the hard ground covered in spiky grass. He groaned at the air forced from his lungs. At the sharp pain of his teeth smashing together. At the heaviness still pressing on him.
Get the hell out…
Yes, he had to fight. Had to escape.
So, he released the two bags still in his hands and kicked and rolled, slamming an elbow up as he did.
Another grunt. Not his this time. He flipped fully to his back, his gaze slamming into Andre Ivanov. One of Luciano’s guys.
Fire burst in the pit of Dean’s stomach. Revenge had come to his doorstep. The angry glow to Andre’s eyes said as much.
Dean struck out, his fist connecting with Andre’s ear. “You’ve come a long way to fight a rich fucker’s war.”
The man reeled but remained on top of Dean. Andre recovered quickly and flung his weight forward, using his forearm to crush Dean’s neck. Dean coughed and spluttered. Andre’s sneering face drew nearer. “And of us two poor fuckers, one must die, yes?”
Andre’s thick Russian accent filled Dean’s ears, and he wanted to shake his head, but he managed nothing more than to gasp for air. Air that didn’t come. His face turned inordinately hot. His skin and lungs burned in the effort for breath. He would die right here on his lawn.
He bucked, sending Andre off-kilter, bringing the man’s face even closer. Dean threw all his effort into thrusting his head upward, sending his forehead into Andre’s already crooked nose.
The man flailed backward, his arm disconnecting from Dean’s neck. Loud gasps of air filled Dean’s lungs. He coughed against the discomfort in his throat, all the while fighting to stay focused on Andre, who still remained seated on his belly, the fucker’s nose now pissing out blood.
They’d worked together a handful of times. Dean had nothing against Andre, except that Andre stood in the way of Dean’s refusal to let Luciano snuff him out like every other sucker in the past.
As if the others didn’t fight back too?
Sure they had. But he was done being a stepping stone in other people’s rivers, collateral damage on the way to getting what they wanted. Usually inane things like more booze, money, a shitty relationship… There’d been his parents. The sergeant. Then Luciano. Dean wouldn’t take anymore, so screw them all, including Andre here.
He swung a right hook at Andre’s head, flinging the asshole sideways long enough for Dean to shuffle out. He scrambled onto his elbows on his way to standing, only for Andre’s heavily booted foot to sweep the ground from under him.
He hit the lawn again, though at least he had his hands free to catch him this time, and he kicked a leg out, hoping that blind kick would land somewhere in Andre’s vicinity. A low scream validated his hope. He rolled onto his back and sat, grimacing at the sight of Andre clutching his nose again. Hit twice in the same spot, likely on a bone that was already broken…
Andre’s warning about one of them having to die had Dean scrambling to his feet. He couldn’t waste time. So, he ran for his car. Like a man on fire. Like his life depended on this escape. Which it did.
Not just his life.
A whole host of lives.
Even Andre’s.
