by Denise Wells
If there’s one thing I learned from the FBI, it’s that crime is everywhere. And I mean every-fucking-where. When you do expect it, when you don’t, doesn’t matter. Everyone commits a crime at some point in their life. Most people, more than one. It just depends on if they make a habit of it or not.
Everything from a twenty out of your mom’s wallet or a few pens and pencils from the office, to fucking embezzlement or grand theft auto. Hell, to human trafficking, drug running, and murder. I’m not saying one leads to the other, mostly because I’m not sure how I feel about the idea of gateway crimes.
Or gateway drugs.
You are predisposed to do something, or you’re not. It either goes against your moral compass strongly enough that you refrain, or you don’t. Me killing the guy earlier—and not in the name of the law—it just didn’t bother me enough to not do it.
Lately, I feel like a fucking pressure cooker ready to explode. I played the straight and narrow for so goddamn long that now I have no qualms with going wide and crooked as fuck. But, to bring it back around, is that because I joined this gang? No. It’s because I was predisposed to violence.
And maybe to righting wrongs.
The guy did wrong, so I made it right.
And these guys I’m following down yet another dank and dark hallway, they were flat out born this way. Into this life. Not only is there a predisposition, but they see nothing wrong with what they do. It’s their job to protect their haul—doesn’t matter if it’s women, drugs, or guns—it’s their livelihood. How they feed their families, hire their whores, buy their fast cars. And it’s expected they will protect their pakhan, the Russian equivalent of their capo. The Godfather.
Though I haven’t quite figured out who exactly that is yet. I mean, Ronan is technically the one in charge. But Andrei definitely has the ear of most of the men. And it’s obvious he’s looking to throw down with this Ronan guy. Yet, Ronan still puts the fear of god in everyone but Andrei, it seems. But, after the crystal tumbler episode, maybe that will change.
Ronan has yet to make an appearance outside of that incident. I think it was only the second time I’ve seen him since he’s been in the US. He doesn’t stay here at Andrei’s, and I don’t know whose house it was that we visited him at. But the security was tight as fuck. Much better than what Andrei has got going on here, that’s for sure.
I follow one of the guys—Dmitri, I think—through the winding hallways. So many fucking hallways. We turn to head down the one I used earlier after leaving the dead dickwad I beat the hell out of. Pausing only once we reach the door where I heard the woman crying from behind earlier.
I figured that’s who we were collecting for Andrei. And I’m not entirely sure how I plan to handle it. I’m guessing that after her run in this morning, she’s probably a little beat up. That’s bound to piss me off. If they’ve got her stashed away down here, then her living conditions aren’t stellar, and that will make me angry too. Anything they’ve been doing to this woman that isn’t respectful and above board threatens to send me over the edge.
One of the guys tries the door. Dmitri backhands him across the chest and reprimands him in Russian, then digs through his pockets for the key. Which, of course, the dumb shit can’t find. It’s like the beginning of a bad joke.
How many Russian guys does it take to open a locked door?
For fuck’s sake.
I turn back toward the direction that we came, sensing something is off with this. Or here. Holy shit, maybe I really do have some kind of Spideysense. Except there’s nothing behind us, and there doesn’t seem to be anything in front of us.
Convinced I’m overreacting, I turn back and follow the guys inside the room. It’s just as disgusting and deplorable as I figured it would be. The smell rank, the light dim, and the furnishings sparse. A bucket off to the right that has seen better days leaks urine to the floor. Amidst a small pile of rags, which I’m guessing the woman has been using after the bucket facilities.
Disgusting.
To the left is the thin mattress the woman is lying on. Her back to us, curled into a fetal position. The guy who I think is Dmitri goes over to her and yells something in Russian. I shake my head. She’s not going to understand; she’s American. The idiot.
He yells again and kicks at her back.
“Hey!” I call to him, my fists clench tightly at my sides. It takes all my strength not to throw him down and kick his back, the same as he’s doing to her. I can’t wait to get my hands on these guys and show them exactly how it feels—every little thing they’ve done to these women—I want to do, in turn, to them.
He turns back to face me.
“Knock it off,” I tell him, gesturing to the woman. “She’s not even fighting back. Just get her and let’s go.”
“Fuck you.” He spits on the ground as though to punctuate his point. It’s so cliché of him, I almost laugh.
He leans down and grabs her arm, yanking her up first to her knees and then to her feet. Or what should be a standing position. She’s like a rag doll, hanging there. Her dress in tatters, her hair a tangled mess—blood, sweat, and dirt matting it to her face, masking her features entirely—shoes gone, grime smeared all over her skirt. My hands fist at my sides, once again at the ready to beat the shit out of this asshole.
Disgusting abominations of human existence.
When I finish this shit with Viktor, if I finish this shit with Viktor, nothing is stopping me from coming after these assholes. I don’t care who this woman is, no one deserves to be treated like this.
Dmitri shakes her roughly, and she comes alive all at once. A flurry of fists, feet, and fingernails all cycling in Dmitri’s direction. Dmitri gets a solid hit in, stunning the woman for a second. Giving the other guy time to step forward and clock her on the back of the head with the butt of his gun.
She goes limp once again, but this time she’s not feigning it. Dmitri gives her another hard shake, forcing her head to loll back on her neck. I see the torn bodice of her dress first, exposing her breast and look around for something to cover her—what that would be, I have no idea. Turning back, I see the teeth marks next with the bruising around the tiny indentations, ugly and purple, marring her otherwise beautiful skin.
She moans, her pain clear in the sound.
My gaze travels up, and I take in her face.
Everything around me stops.
It’s Quinn.
My Quinn.
Here in this filthy, disgusting hovel, about to be paraded around in front of Andrei and his fucked-up henchmen.
What have they done to her?
Fury blazes through me.
I want nothing more than to kill. Destroy.
Overwhelming guilt at once warring with the need to desolate each tiny molecule that makes up their reprehensible beings.
My breath comes in stages as my body gears up for action. The compulsion to rip these monsters apart limb by limb until bloody stumps are all that remain. Insignificant remnants to cast aside, quickly forgotten.
I see red. I never knew what that term meant until now. A haze blankets my vision, and I become so singularly focused the rest of the world fades away. My one viable action becomes clear as I grab my gun from the back waistband of my jeans.
Pop. Pop.
Two rounds in the back of the other guy’s head.
Pop. Pop.
Two rounds in the back of Dmitri’s head before he can even turn around to figure out what’s going on.
Quinn falls to the floor. I rush forward to collect her, cradling her in my arms, trying to check every inch of her at once to see what more has been done to her.
“Quinn? Quinn, baby, it’s me. Quinn, open your eyes, baby. Please.” I smooth her hair back from her face and notice the bruising and black eye. I think her nose might be broken as well.
I feel for a pulse in her neck and notice the hand marks there.
“FUCK!”
23
Daria
&nb
sp; I watch as the small convoy heads up the north-facing hill toward Andrei’s place. Given the number of SUVs besides the one black limousine, I’m positive it’s my father and his men.
Coming to ambush Andrei.
When my people are in there.
Fuck.
I’ve got to warn them. I move to get out of the truck. Pain shoots up through my chest, so sharp it literally takes my breath away. Tears fill my eyes. Goddamn it. How am I going to get over the wall and to Mack and my girls if I can’t even get out of the fucking truck?
I fumble with the comms unit, cursing my left hand for its lack of dexterity. “Mack? Come in, Mack.”
Nothing.
“Mack? Al?”
“Roxie?”
“Jen? Anyone?”
The comms unit crackles in my ear. All I get is what might be voices, but they are too muted by static to understand.
I look around the truck, trying to find something, anything, that can help me notify them danger is on the way. Grabbing my cell phone, I set it in my lap and hit the speed dial button to call Mack first; it goes straight to voicemail. Trying to reach Al garners the same results. I don’t even try Jen or Roxie, knowing the same will happen.
Fuck.
Think, Daria, think.
I call my father.
When he doesn’t answer, I immediately call him back. This time he picks up.
“Daria.”
“Father, don’t do this, please.”
“Don’t do what, Daria?” he asks.
“Don’t storm Andrei’s. Not right now.”
“How can you possibly know what I’m planning to do? And especially at this moment?”
“Well, for one, you told me earlier that you planned to do it.”
“And?”
I sigh. “And I’m watching you.”
His anger worms its way through the phone, filling me with dread and regret.
“Defying me once again, I see.” His voice is hard and cold.
I remain quiet and watch as the convoy miraculously slows and stops before the turn at the first crest of the hills leading to Andrei’s.
“Are you inside the compound?” he asks.
I hesitate. Shit.
If I tell him yes, does that mean he’ll call off his men? But he’ll be even more upset with me for disobeying. Once again. And when does that cycle end? Do we just spend the rest of our existence with me pissing him off and him feeling disappointment in everything I do?
And, if I tell him no, does that mean he charges ahead and carries out his plan? He’s already angry that I’m watching him. But maybe he won’t be as upset if he doesn’t think I’m ignoring his demands.
Finally, do I care if he’s mad at me? I’m a grown fucking woman. We don’t even live in the same country any longer. Any obedience on my part stems from how I was raised, not because he’s earned it.
Fuck it.
“I’m not,” I admit. “But my girls and Mack are.”
Silence is his only reply.
“My friend, Quinn, might be too. I don’t want any of them hurt if you go ahead with this.”
I wait, watching the line of vehicles for movement, holding my breath. He knows how much I love Mack, Quinn, and my girls. At least I’m assuming he does. If he has any modicum of decency in his soul, he’ll call this off until they can get back out.
The longer he sits there, the better I feel about things. And I realize that I’ve neglected my relationship with my father for too long. He doesn’t deserve that. He’s getting on in years, and it’s my responsibility as his daughter to stay in touch, make sure he knows he’s loved. Or at the very least cared for.
It isn’t until after they move forward again that I realize he’s since hung up on me.
Another minute passes, and the SUV leading the pack rams Andrei’s front gate, sending half of it flying in the air and crumbling the other half under its wheels.
Mere moments after that, evidence of the first explosion soars into the sky as Andrei’s world begins to crumble.
Right along with mine.
24
Mack
I hear the first explosion seconds before the walls shudder. Dust drifts down from the ceiling. And we all wait to see what will follow. The silence that comes after such a sound is eerie. That feeling never fades, no matter how many times you’ve been around a bomb.
My guess? They’ve got a grenade launcher up there, maybe even two, just lobbing shit at the building again and again. At this point, I’m convinced it’s Viktor up there and that he’s taken a decent chunk out of Andrei’s men, if not Andrei himself. What I don’t know is whether Ronan is here as well.
Al motions us forward, toward the gunfire and anguished male cry. Balls of steel on that one. We make it past the corner only to find another empty hall. I give the signal to stop and mime to Al that I’m going to check the open door ahead.
I can hear something, a man’s voice I’m pretty sure, I just can’t tell what he’s saying, but it’s in English. I creep forward slowly, my shoes soundless on the floor. Another explosion sounds from above, followed by rapid gunfire. Automatic weapons. Whatever is going on up there, it’s war. Making me wonder if Daria’s father is holding true on his promise to take Andrei out.
I reach the doorway and slowly pivot so my back is against the wall, making it easier for me to spin in, shoot, and spin back out.
One. Two. Three.
I spin in.
And halt.
It’s Reed.
And Quinn.
“Re—”
Boom.
I hear the gun fire before I feel the whiz of the bullet barely miss my ear.
Boom.
I barely register the second shot hit me until I spin back out of the room and feel the burn in my shoulder. Reed not only shot at me, but he fucking shot me. Clipped me in the clavicle, just inside the edge of my fucking vest.
Motherfucker.
“Reed! It’s me, Mack!” I yell toward the doorway before poking my head back through.
He looks up, his face filled with anguish. “She’s not breathing.”
I’m by his side as the girls rush in. They move as one highly efficient unit. Roxie takes post by the door. Jen shoves gauze between my vest and the bullet wound, then wraps a flex bandage under my arm and around my shoulder to staunch the blood flow. I don’t question her actions until she goes to shoot me up with something from a small syringe.
“Antibiotic?”
“Morphine.”
“Oh, shit. Bringing out the big guns.”
“Can’t have you passing out from the pain.”
I want to argue that I would never pass out from the pain, but then the morphine starts to kick in, my body begins to relax, and I realize how tense and in pain I was.
“Thanks.”
She nods in return. “It’s clean through, no bullet, you’ll be fine.” She pats me on the opposite shoulder then moves to help Al check Quinn over.
“She’s breathing,” Al reports. “It’s just faint. So’s her pulse—”
Explosions rock the walls again. Debris rains down as bits of concrete break away from the walls, and dust flies free from the ceiling.
The sounds of screaming and gunfire fill the air. We look at one another, all with same thought at once. How in the fuck are we going to get out of here?
“We go back the way we came,” Al says. Answering the question no one dared to ask.
Reed gathers Quinn in his arms, who has yet to wake. We head back, single file once again, with Al in the lead, followed by Jen, then Reed with Quinn, Roxie, and me. That gives us two people in front of Reed to fend off anyone who may get in our way and two people behind. Reed has already given me each of his pieces. He won’t risk Quinn’s life by also trying to fire a gun. And I don’t blame him.
The further along the crazy hallways we go, the more apparent it becomes that everyone is upstairs engaged in the firefight, and we might just be able to make it out
of this alive. I want to doubt that thought even as I have it. But at the same time, we deserve a lot of fucking luck right now. And that’s exactly what getting out of here without issue would be.
There’s one thing serving during times with active combat that a man rarely forgets the sound of—the sound of a missile as it flies toward you. Which is the same thing I’m hearing now.
“Retreat, we need to fucking retreat.” I grab Jen by the arm. She jerks away from me as though I’ve hit her. I immediately regret my actions, already forgetting that all these women who work with Daria have been victimized in horrific ways. And almost single-handedly by men.
“We need to—”
The missile hits the same side of the house we’re headed for. The sounds of concrete crumbling rumbles through the hall as the air fills with dust. Suffocation and blindness set in at once. I pull one of the cleaner bandages from within my vest and wrap it around my head to protect my nose and mouth. Then give Reed one for him and another for Quinn. I turn to the girls only to find they’ve all already tied bandanas around their faces.
Astounding me once again. Not that it should surprise me. They are trained by Daria, and she is nothing if not efficient and prepared for anything. We turn to head the other way, this time with me taking the lead. Al is still using her cool program, but the dust makes it hard for any thermal imaging to take place, and we can’t see more than a few inches ahead.
The only good thing about that is neither can anyone else who may be headed our way, but it makes our progress slow going. It isn’t until we hit another dead end that I realize we are completely fucked. Stuck in a series of hallways shaped like a cross with two points naturally resulting in dead ends, and the other two now filled with fallen concrete and debris.
Al kicks in a nearby door and we take shelter in what might be the only dust-free space down here to regroup. Reed settles himself into a corner, cradling Quinn in his arms. Dust covering every inch of him, making him appear decades older than he is.
“Well.” Roxie turns to the rest of us, pulling her bandana off and shaking the dust off before using it to wipe the grime from the rest of her face. “What the fuck do we do now?”
