Page 39 of Born To Be Bad

“Four,” she replies. “That last round?—”

Ivy gasps as the SUV smashes into the side of the Jaguar, sending Lucky careening into another car. Metal screeches, rubber burns. He manages to regain control. I gesture to Brumilde to trade places, so that I can get to the window. We quickly swap while a strangled-sounding Ivy murmurs comforting nonsense to the baby. It’ll be over soon, I want to tell her, but there’s no time. I ready my gun while Brumilde finds Alex’s earmuffs and quickly puts them on his head.

“Get down,” she tells Ivy, while she covers the baby with her body. Ivy hesitates, not wanting to be safely tucked in the footwell when everyone else is in danger.

“Now,” I tell her, and she does.

I take aim at the driver. My shooting is usually accurate, but we’re all speeding and swerving, so it’s not going to be easy to get the shot. The armed passenger catches sight of me leaning out the window and showers us with bullets. I pull inside just in time, and we only lose a wing mirror. I try again, but I’m rushing, and the shot doesn’t come close. Lucky sees what I’m trying to do, so he distracts their driver by trying to run them off the road. When the passenger turns his AK-47 on Lucky, it gives me the second I need to aim properly and fire.

The gunshot is so loud inside the cabin. Alex screams in terror. But it was worth it, because I got the guy in the shoulder. He almost loses his seat on the rolled-down window, swaying way out of the car before levering himself back in. He tries to lift his barrel at me but the pain makes his grip unsteady, and the next rounds he fires don’t come close to us. I take the opportunity to shoot at him again, and I clock him with my third bullet. His body turns limp and slumps into the road. Keeping focus despite the banshee in my ear, I’m able to shatter their windscreen with my next round. I aimed for the driver, but I can’t see through the silver spiderweb of glass whether I got him or not. When the SUV starts swerving to the side of the road, I know I’ve hit my target.

CHAPTER 22

Good Shot

IVY

“Pull over, Macavoy,” yells Alistair.

The driver does as instructed, and we gratefully glide to a stop a safe distance from the traffic. I haul oxygen into my lungs, not knowing how long I’d held my breath. I rush to unclip the hysterical infant and tuck him into my body as close as I can. I zip up the jacket Alistair puts over me, so that Alex is pressed into my side, in a safe, dark little cave. I rock and shush him. Brumilde offers his pacifier, which he hungrily accepts. Finally, he is silent.

Lucky and Henderson pull in behind us, still on full alert.

“Good work,” says Alistair, which I think is his way of saying thank you.

“Good shot,” replies Henderson.

“Were we expecting that?” asks Brumilde.

“Yes and no,” says Alistair. “Not this soon, anyway.”

“Bratva?” I ask. They looked Slavic to me, but what did I know? It’s probably the caricatures of the James Bond villains in my mind that make me think that.

“It appears so,” replies Alistair. His face is pinched with regret. “Blackwood was right. I should have moved when I had the chance.”

Henderson nods. “Pre-emptive strikes are always best.”

“Fuck,” spits Alistair, with more venom than a viper. “This is my fault.” He interlaces his fingers behind his head and looks up as if searching for some kind of answer in the sky.

I want to argue. I want to comfort him, but I know it’s not the time. I’m also angry at the men who tried to run us off the road, who tried to shoot us. I feel fiercely protective of Alex—he’s already lost so much.

Alistair puts his phone to his ear, but doesn’t talk. He curses again. “Blackwood’s phone is off.”

Henderson’s jaw muscles ripple as he clenches his teeth. He’s not happy.

“I’ll keep trying him,” says Lucky.

“Fuck!” yells Alistair again. I get the feeling he wants to kick something.

“It’s okay,” I mumble nervously. I don’t want him to shout at me again. “We’re okay.”

Alistair’s expression is so pained that it hurts me. He pulls me in and rests his mouth on the top of my head. “I can’t lose you,” he says.

“You won’t,” I reply.

“Poor baby,” he says of the bundle I’m holding close. “This can’t go on. I should have listened to Blackwood. I should have given the order and now it’s too late.”

We both look at Lucky, but he shakes his head. Still no answer.

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