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One of Reznik’s guys is crouching behind the next rack, repeatedly popping above it to shoot toward the front end of the warehouse.
I lunge at him with a vicious blow to his face, sending him flying through the fur coats as his gun slides across the floor to the center of the warehouse—fuck!
I move quickly.
I don’t have much time.
Bullets zip above me.
Moans echo from the opposite side—someone got hurt.
But I don’t stop, don’t look, my eyes on the back door as the warehouse turns into a shootout.
In a minute, I’m out the door, shielding my eyes from the blinding outside light.
A red sedan storms with screeching acceleration toward the main avenue. I can’t see who’s driving, but the blond hair that I spot through the back window ishers.
Lu!
I dart after it, reaching the main street—yes, we are still in the Soviet fucking Motherland.
For once, there’s something else I love about Brighton besides food—double parking and traffic. Reznik could’ve run the red light, but when some asshole double-parks, blocking one of the two lanes, and a bus blocks the second lane, the red sedan behind it has nowhere to go.
The pain in my shoulder sharpens as I run as fast as I can after Reznik’s car.
I want to snatch someone’s phone and call Roey but have to keep my eyes on the car. Hopefully, Miller is following the tracker in my shoe.
I almost reach Reznik’s car when the light switches to green, and as soon as the second lane is free, the sedan passes the bus and vrooms forward.
Fuck!
I sprint like I’m trying to catch a Formula 1 racer.
The same scenario repeats one light after another. The sedan turns onto Corbin Place and gets stuck a hundred feet ahead of me in traffic.
My wound hurts like a bitch, bleeding through my shirt. Sweat rolls down my face as I sprint across the road and along the sidewalk. My lungs burn but I can run like this for blocks. Except I don’t know where Reznik is heading, and I pray Roey keeps an eye on my tracker and sends more guys.
The sedan turns a couple of times on the smaller streets and veers onto Emmons Avenue which runs along the bay, lined with boats and charters.
I run past the pedestrians, panting, knowing that if Reznik is heading for the highway, I’ll lose him, and if Roey doesn’t send a car after him, Reznik will get away.
Roey! Where the fuck are you?
My lungs scream as they burn with oxygen. Blood pounds in my brain. Sweat leaks into my eyes as I try to keep them on the red sedan ahead that’s getting farther and farther away.
Until it stops abruptly about three hundred feet ahead, and Reznik darts out.
What’s he doing?
I push myself forward.
Reznik drags Lu out and toward the bay.
Where’s he going?
When I reach his car, I dart toward the open gates, the packed parking lot, and the railing that fences off the marina behind it.
A speedboat veers away from the dock.
