Page 39 of Killer Love

The warehouse is completely silent beneath the passing traffic on the street outside. The noises echo in the shadows, blending with my beating heart and my tongue turns dry. I twist my head left and right, sensing nothing and no one behind every box or pillar and I grow even more frustrated with each one I pass by.

I spin around to head back toward the car when a shape darts out of the shadows.

I raise my gun to fire but there’s barely a moment to breathe before I feel the pain firing up my wrist. I clamp my fingers around the butt of my gun, refusing to drop it as the masked man takes another go at disarming me. He takes hold of my wrist and twists it back, tangling the nerves inside and pain spikes up my arm.

I headbutt his obscured face, connecting with his jaw and he falls backward into the sunlight behind a row of boxes. He’s dressed in black from head to toe with a tactical vest strapped to his torso. A balaclava covers his face, everything but his eyes. Just like…

Like the hissing man in Moscow.

The kobra.

I flex my jaw, more eager than ever now to put a bullet between his eyes. He darts to the left, swooping low to sweep my knee. I can’t react quick enough to stay on my feet. He grabs at my gun again and I pull the trigger. The bullet passes by him to ricochet off the floor, echoing so loudly it trembles my ears.

“Luka!”

Yuri bounds toward us with his gun drawn.

As I spin back, the man’s foot connects with my chest, forcing me even closer to the floor. My gun slips from my fingers to fall directly into his hand.

Yuri fires a quick stream of bullets in our direction and I keep my head down as the man in black rushes to hide behind the nearest pillar. My brother is a businessman, not a marksman, so he misses every hit. At least he bought me some time to get back on my feet.

I run forward, eager to catch up with this bastard and finish this, but a scope brings me to a grinding halt.

He stands at a tall stack of crates with a sniper rifle trained directly at my brother’s head.

“Stop!” he shouts, his accent distinctly American. “Put it down.”

Yuri grows an inch taller. “You first.”

The muzzle flashes and my heart stops, fearing the worst as the bullet passes me by before I can throw myself in front of it.

“Yuri!”

The bullet strikes Yuri’s gun and it tumbles from his untouched hand. It spins roughly as it hits the floor and slides away from us.

The man in black lowers the rifle and raises his other palm. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, heaving a thick breath. “I just want to talk.”

“You shot at us,” I point out.

“And I missed,” he says. “That wasn’t an accident. I had to get your attention.”

“And now you have it. What the fuck do you want?”

He drops his rifle to the floor and slides the clip from my gun, along with popping the bullet free from the chamber with a quick flick of his wrist. He stuffs the clip into his pocket and the gun into his belt before reaching for his mask.

He pulls it free, revealing his pale, shadowed face and ruffled brown hair. A long, white scar stands out on his left cheek. He presents his hands to show he’s disarmed. “I was sent here to kill you.”

I scoff. “You must not be very good at it, comrade.”

“I was sent here to kill you, but I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

He reaches into his breast pocket as his eyes shift between us and pulls out a flash drive attached to a short clip on his vest.

“And what is that?” Yuri asks.

“A white flag,” he answers. “Something that will make the entire Lutrova family very happy and very busy for a long time.”

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