Chapter 52: Devil’s Lair: Chapter 52

I’m moving before the sound of my last shot fades, leaping out from behind the cover of the trees to close the distance between me and Chloe. Her gaze jerks up from the dead man at her side, her face streaked with dirt and blood, her brown eyes uncomprehending as she backs away, mouth opening in a silent scream at my approach.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s me.” Dropping to my knees, I gather her against me, feeling the convulsive trembling of her body—and of mine. I’m shaking with relief and rage and the aftermath of bone-chilling terror, the awful fear that we were too late.

We were almost at the gas station when Konstantin called me again with the news that his team had accomplished the nearly impossible feat of hacking into an NSA satellite, and that he was able to pinpoint the exact location of Chloe’s car—and the black pickup truck that was less than a half hour behind her.

To say that we broke every speed limit in existence would be an understatement. Arkash is still recovering from the half-dozen times we nearly flew off a cliff. And we almost didn’t make it anyway. The terror that assaulted me when I saw her car in a crumpled, burning heap… If it hadn’t been for the empty pickup next to it and the sound of gunfire nearby, I would’ve lost my fucking mind.

Actually, I did lose it when I saw her on the ground with the dark-haired assassin straddling her, twisted lust painted on his face.

The motherfucker was going to rape her before killing her.

It was the only reason she wasn’t already dead.

My arms tighten around her reflexively, and she makes a faint sound of distress.

I immediately pull back. “Are you hurt, zaychik? Injured in any way?”

She doesn’t reply, just stares at me with huge, blank eyes, her pupils blown so wide her irises look black. She’s in shock, and no wonder. Even a trained soldier would be traumatized.

Gently, I lay her down and begin inspecting her for injuries, starting with her ribs and stomach. I’m relieved to find only scrapes and bruises on her torso, but as my hand brushes over her right arm, she jerks with a pained cry, her face turning gray. I snatch my hand back, my pulse doubling at the sight of the red smear on my fingers as she squeezes her eyes shut, her breathing painfully shallow.

Fuck. She is hurt.

Steadying my hands, I rip open her sleeve.

“Gunshot?” Pavel asks in Russian, appearing at my side, and I nod grimly, ripping off a piece of my shirt to fashion a makeshift bandage.

“Looks like it went clean through, but she’s losing a good amount of blood.”

“So is he,” Pavel says, and I tear my gaze from Chloe to glance at her assailant. He’s sitting slumped against a tree trunk a few feet away, with Kirilov putting pressure on his chest wound and Arkash standing guard over them.

“I don’t think he’ll last long enough to get him back to the compound,” Pavel says as I swiftly finish tying the bandage and resume my inspection of Chloe. Her color is a little better, but her eyes are still closed and her breaths are too shallow for my liking. “If you want to interrogate him, it has to be now.”

Fuck. I deliberately tried to only wound the motherfucker so we’d be able to question him. If he dies, so does our chance to get answers.

I quickly finish patting down Chloe and leap to my feet. As much as I want to get my zaychik to a doctor right away, her injuries aren’t life-threatening—but not knowing who her enemies are could be.

These men are pros, which means someone hired them, someone powerful, and I need to know who it is.

“Watch over her,” I tell Pavel and step over to our captive.

He’s breathing in jerky gasps, his face starkly pale and the entire front of his body soaked with blood.

Pavel’s right. He doesn’t have much longer. I meant to shoot him in the shoulder, but he spun around too fast, alerted to my presence by the bullet I had to put through his colleague’s skull. With Pavel and the rest of the team unable to keep up with my terror-fueled sprint, I had no choice but to take out both assassins quickly, before they could do anything to Chloe.

In hindsight, I should’ve wounded them both.

As I crouch in front of the dying man, his lids lift, revealing baleful dark eyes.

“Who the fuck are you people?” he rasps, only to close his eyes, exhausted by the effort.

“Don’t worry about that.” Despite the volcanic rage boiling in my veins, my voice is lethally calm, controlled. “Who hired you? Why are you after her?”

His upper lip twists in a snarl. “Fuck you.”

“You’re dying, you know. I can let you fade away in peace or”—I take out my switchblade and flip it open—“I can mince you into pieces and make you feel every last slice.”

His eyes open heavily. “Fuck off.”

I throw a glance over my shoulder. Chloe is lying perfectly still, her eyes closed. Hopefully, she’s passed out, or at least is so deeply in shock she won’t register this next part.

Either way, there’s no choice.

I need to get answers, fast.

I catch Arkash’s gaze. “Do it.”

The guard pulls out a syringe and stabs the dying assassin in the neck, injecting him with our pharmaceutical division’s patented drug—the one the Russian military pays millions for.

The man barely reacts at first, only swatting at the site of the injection with a feeble hand. A moment later, however, his eyes go wide and he sits upright, his breathing speeding up as color rushes into his pallid cheeks.

“Epinephrine mixed with a few other fun substances,” I tell him cruelly. “It’ll keep you wide awake until the moment you croak. Which will be either a few neutral or a few terrible minutes from now. Your choice.”

He’s panting now, sweat running down his face. “Who the fuck are you?”

“If you don’t start talking, the man who makes your last moments hell.” I nod at Arkash and Kirilov, and they seize the man’s arms, easily lifting them above his head despite his struggles.

“Last chance,” I prompt, but the motherfucker just glares at me.

I smile darkly. I was hoping he’d prove difficult. As much as I prefer to play nice, this is the one time I’m looking forward to applying the skills Pavel taught me.

With the speed of a striking rattler, I stab my knife into the man’s kidney and twist the blade.

The scream that rips from his throat is barely human. The drug not only keeps him conscious, it enhances all sensations, magnifying pain a thousandfold.

Before he can recover, I yank out the blade and slice at his stomach twice, slashing through skin, fat, and muscle in a big X.

His eyes bulge, another inhuman scream tearing through his throat as I peel back the triangular flaps of flesh, revealing his insides.

“Have you ever wondered what it feels like to have your intestines cut out without anesthesia?” I ask conversationally. “No? Because you’re about to find out. Actually, wait—I think that might kill you too quickly. We’ll start lower.” With another swift motion, I slash through the groin of his jeans, exposing his limp cock and balls.

“Wait!” His eyes are wild as my blade descends again. “I’ll—I’ll tell you.”

I stop an inch from his shriveled dick. “Go ahead.”

“I don’t know why, okay? He never told us.” He coughs, spitting up blood. “Just said we had to take them out.”

“Them?”

“The woman and… the girl.”

Fuck. “You were supposed to kill them both that day?”

“Yeah.” His face is paler with each moment. “Only the girl was late. And then somehow she saw us and…” He coughs again, weakly, and I know the drug is losing the battle against his dying body.

“Who was it?” I demand urgently as his lids drift down. “Who hired you?” I press the sharp point of the knife against his balls. “Give me a fucking name!”

His eyes open blearily, and he croaks out three syllables—a name that nearly makes me drop my knife. My stunned gaze meets Arkash’s and Kirilov’s; written on their faces is the same slack-jawed look of disbelief.

“Did you just say—” I begin, returning my attention to the assassin, only to fall silent in frustration.

His eyes are vacant, his chest unmoving as his head lolls bonelessly to one side.

It’s over. The motherfucker’s gone.

I leap to my feet, my mind furiously sifting through what I know.

The man he named would definitely have the resources to do this, but what’s the motivation? The connection? How would his and Chloe’s paths have even crossed?

Unless… they didn’t.

Chloe wasn’t the only person on his hit list; her mother was on it too.

And then, like an avalanche, it hits me.

California. Young mother, still underage at the time of Chloe’s birth. A father she never knew. A full-ride scholarship that came out of nowhere.

A different man, one with a normal, loving family, would never leap to a conclusion so twisted, so dark. But I’m a Molotov, and I know shared blood doesn’t buy loyalty or safety.

I know love can be more violent than hate.

Heart thudding heavily, I turn to look at Chloe.

If I’m right, her very existence is a career-ending scandal—and another so-called father deserves my knife.