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He advances quickly. “You think you can double-cross me?”
I act trapped, letting him believe he’s going to get his filthy paws on me. As he reaches for me with the speed of a striking snake, I hop onto the bed and grip the horizontal bar of the four-poster frame. With a powerful push, I swing through the air, opening my legs. Surprise registers on his face as I catch him around the neck in the vise of my thighs, crossing my ankles to secure the death grip.
Smothering his face in my crotch, I squeeze my legs and twist my hips at the same time. A less experienced man would’ve died from a broken neck in seconds, but Dimitrov isn’t any man. He’s a hardened criminal used to fighting dirty. He bends with the movement before falling to his knees, almost ripping my hands from the bar. I have no choice but to let him go or fall on the floor right in front of him.
I recover quickly. Before he can get to his feet, I swing back and kick out with my legs, hitting him full in the chest with the sharp heels of my shoes.
The kick hurts. It does enough damage to fold him backward and knock out his breath. Clutching a fistful of his shirt, he looks down at the red spots of blood seeping through the fabric where my heels have broken his skin.
“You’re going to pay for this,” he hisses, climbing to his feet.
I don’t hesitate. I slam a heel onto his hand where he’s grabbing the edge of the bed for support.
The unmistakable splintering of bone sounds, and blood pools around the hole my heel has left. Clasping his hand to his chest, he goes back down and utters a cry that’s bound to alarm the expert.
By now, Ilya and Yan should be on the balcony. At the sound of trouble, the expert will let Dimitrov’s guards in. The priority is stopping him from unlocking the door. I’ll deal with Dimitrov after. For the moment, Dimitrov is hurting enough to be out of action, even if just for a short while.
Using the strength in my arms, I swing myself over the bed to the other side while Dimitrov catches his breath on the floor with blood pumping from his hand. I barely feel the burn in my muscles or the jarring impact on my legs as I land on my feet in the heels. I’m about to make a beeline for the door when the mousy man appears in the frame. Taken aback, I stop dead. The man closes the door and locks it before leaning a shoulder against the wall in a confusingly casual stance.
A shot rings out from the other room. Even with the silencer, the sound resonates through me like a brass bell in a church tower.
Another shot is fired in answer.
Shit. Too late. The man let the guards in. Yan and Ilya are caught in a crossfire, and they’re outnumbered by three.
My body flashes hot and cold. A setup was the last thing we expected. We don’t have a backup plan, not for the war playing out in the other room. Our order to the hotel manager was clear. We didn’t want anyone on this floor until the job was done. The whole fourth floor was evacuated and closed for a so-called routine fumigation. With the silencers, it may take a while before someone realizes there’s a shootout happening on the floor. And if a guest or employee does catch on to what’s going down and calls the police, we’re still fucked. If captured, they’ll torture us for information on our alliances and clients before locking us up so deep and far away we’ll rot before anyone finds us. The government won’t come to our aid. They can’t admit they ordered the hit on Dimitrov. They, too, were clear with their order.
If caught, we’re on our own. We can’t rely on help.
My heart and mind race when I think about Yan and what’s happening behind that locked door, but I have to trust him to fight his battle. And I have to take care of mine.
I turn my attention to the mousy man, who probably escaped in here to protect himself and Dimitrov from the bullets flying around next door. “Go into the bathroom and stay there. You don’t need to get hurt.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he addresses Dimitrov. “There are two men fighting off five. They don’t stand a chance. I’m sure your team can spare a man. Shall I get one of the guards?”
“No,” Dimitrov grits out, stumbling to his feet. “The bitch is mine. I’m going to kill her with my bare hands and fuck her while I do it.”
So the setup goes this far. The mousy man was never an art expert. Whatever he is, his carelessly spoken words incite me to fury. He doesn’t know Yan and Ilya. They do stand a chance.
