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Good thing I do because the thug is holding Star by the hair. Her head is yanked back, a gleaming knife at her throat. My stomach convulses. She’s kicking back, trying to dislodge him without success. He says something and she stills, her eyes wild with fear.
Seeing the terror etched on her face guts me.
The civilians, mostly teens, huddle together in a shivering mass in a corner.
Good. I don’t need a dumbass Good Samaritan getting in my way.
Crina boldly faces the Russian. Hands out in front of her, she’s talking fast, probably trying to distract him as Gabby edges farther and farther away.
Guessing that she’s trying to reach the emergency brake, the thug snaps at Gabby and she freezes in place. The Bratva dude drags Star near the door. My blood runs cold. I can’t let him leave with her.
I pull out my Glock, praying Crina ducks ’cause I have one shot to get this guy before he escapes with Star. For whatever reason, Star must sense my presence because her gaze surveys the interior of the car before sweeping past the door and then snapping back to me.
I lift my index finger to my mouth. Her eyes scamper away, as if she’s afraid of bringing attention to me.
I don’t give a fuck. Let him see me. He’s going to die, regardless. Slowly, I squeeze the safety on my gun until it’s flush with the grip, disengaging it.
Star stares straight at Crina, who’s gesturing slowly as she keeps talking to the thug and blinks her eyes rapidly as some sort of signal. Hopefully, that’s enough to alert her because I won’t have time to shout at her to get down. Pray to God, she drops to the floor. Marku will never forgive me if she gets hurt.
The subway slows as it screeches into the 68thStreet station. The conductor announces the next station. I slam the door open, aim steadily for his head, and pull the trigger.
Clear hit to the head.
His hand jerks as he goes down, slicing across Star’s collarbone, through her shirt, and down her chest before he topples to the ground.
Star goes down with him, entangled with his heavy body.
Her soft whimper cuts through the screams of the passengers as I run to her and haul the dead Russian off her. Time slows down. A rusty metallic odor fills the air. Gabby pulls the emergency brake and the train shudders to a complete halt. The intercom crackles. The conductor’s garbled voice blares through the speakers.
I heave Star to her feet.
Wrap her in my arms.
Nuzzle my nose into her warm hair.
Breathe in her comforting cherry vanilla scent.
Jesus, she’s safe.
Turning her toward the exit, my shoes squelch in a pool of blood spreading beneath the dead man’s head.
The doors slide open.
Anton is efficiently jostling people away from the train, gawkers staring down at the dead man before moving on. Only in New York do people not run away at the sight of a corpse. Marku blocks the doors from closing with his shoulders.
In stunned silence, Crina stares up at him.
He crooks his finger at her.
Awed, she asks, “How did you know?”
“The tracking device on your phone. Now come here, you pain in my ass.”
She jumps into his arms, clasping him hard and crying into his shoulder.
I gently move out of the train with Star in my arms, murmuring a thanks to my friends as I pass. Blood from the cut across her chest soaks the sides of her slashed white shirt and trickles onto my knuckles.
A woman shrieks “Oh, my God!” as she passes by, seeing the cut oozing blood.
