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We took the window factory the way we would take a building in a war zone. Security on the outside, a team was sent to find the rooftop access points. They must have found them. I heard a shot fired, and a body clad in black fell from the sky and landed on the ground near the door. Then there was another shot.
“The rooftop is clear.” Said an Irish voice. “No external security we can see.”
That meant that there were only twelve inside. Plus Anton himself.
Half of those who remained went to the back entrance with Jericho and Yuliya. His military men followed him without question. The remaining Irish were with me and Eoghan. I took the lead, ready to get to my girl. Another man put his hand on the door. He’d be the last man in.
On Eoghan’s signal, the man opened the door, and I marched in. The man behind me was barely a foot behind. I went right, and the second man went left, rifles up, eyes trailing down the barrel. I shot the first Prada-clad bratva man that I saw, then the second. Someone took a shot at me, but it went wide and one of my men took him down. It was impossible to see who was getting hit and who wasn’t. We simply had to gut through this and see who was left standing when the dust settled.
“Fuck!” I heard an Irish voice say as he took a knee, his leg hit.
When the stillness finally arrived, the bullets halted. The Irish were the winner. Jericho had his AK-47 on Anton, who pointed a Makarov right back. Russians went down from twelve to four. The room was now overwhelmingly Irish.
“Brother,” Anton started, his eyes on Jericho.
The pakhan was sweating. Jericho was as cool as cream. “Anton.”
Frightened men in suits and a smattering of women in cocktail dresses were screaming, their hands over their heads, cowering on the ground. It didn’t look like any of them were hurt. No one to triage.
With a slight gesture of his rifle, two Irishmen started going around to our wounded troops to render aid, put on tourniquets, and control the bleeding if needed.
In the middle of this was still another fight in the chain link of the octagon. Or at least it was a fight… What we walked into was a bludgeoning.
Rose straddled what was left of Morosov, her fist coming down on him again and again. Left, then right, then left. Morosov’s face was a red cavern. His nose was no longer a nose, but a hamburger. On the octagon’s canvas was blood. A pool of it. And with her harsh blows, little bits were splashing up, coating her bare legs, her arms, and a few drops colored her cheeks and forehead.
It was as though she were dressed in rubies.
I lowered my rifle and ran to the chain link.
“Come out Rose,” I told her. “It’s over.”
She halted. She looked at me through lowered eyelashes. The sight of it made me hard as a fucking rock. Blood dripped down her skin, her smile menacing, her fists covered in the dead man’s flesh. The victorious warrior queen, bathing in the blood of her enemies. I wanted to take her right here, right now, in front of everyone. Marking this creature as mine before the world and rolling naked in the blood of those who would do her harm.
“You look gorgeous,” I said to her.
She smiled as she stood up, not caring that her feet were now doused in Morosov’s meat, her feet leaving wine-colored footprints in her wake. She came out of the octagon, through the gate. Her bloody hands reached up to my face, and she pulled me down for a passionate, hungry kiss. I wrapped my arms around her half naked form, lifting her off the ground and she wrapped her legs around my waist.
I felt the cooled blood on my face. My white button down shirt was stained by it.
“My killer queen,” I said, in awe.
“If you don’t marry her, I’ll hire her,” Eoghan said with a laugh.
Anton laughed, his voice accusing Jericho. “You’re not even fucking her, Jericho?”
Jericho cringed at the thought, truly disgusted at the idea of having sex with Rose. I didn’t understand it. Rose transcended age, her beauty and power timeless like a shield maiden, a goddess of war, an Amazon.
“You’ve done all of this for pussy you’re not even sampling?” Anton continued to laugh.
“Brother, I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you don’t shut your mouth.”
“You should kill him.” That was Hugo’s French voice. My head swung in his direction. He was still seated in the chair. Likely the only audience member who hadn’t fallen to the floor. He was twirling a phone in his hand.
Anton continued to laugh. His voice was like a cold shower. Rose felt it too. She lowered her legs and stood, facing the two of them.
“Shoot him, Jericho.” She said in a low voice.
“Yes, do what the girl says,” Anton mocked. “You were always pussy whipped. Our mother, our sister, and now this bitch that someone else is humping… All these women you risk your neck for and get nothing in return.”
