Page 36 of Saint

Saint turned to the men. “If you want to make it out of here alive, you need to do exactly as I say. Because this entire place is going to be a tomb.”

They both nodded, smart enough to know trying to make a run for it in the Bratva-infested compound would be suicide.

“Start making the Novichok,” Saint ordered, and Zaitsev got to work without a word. “Enough to release into the ducts and spread throughout the entire place.”

“A little goes a long way,” Zaitsev mumbled, busily searching for the ingredients that comprised his deadly recipe.

“You’re going to wipe out the Bratva?” Alexei asked in disbelief.

“As many fuckers as I can,” Saint promised. He glanced over at the chemist. “How long is this going to take?”

“Ten minutes? Maybe?”

“Make it eight,” Saint clipped. “And I have the gas masks. So if you want to make it out of here alive then you better do exactly as I say.”

“Y-yes, of course,” Zaitsev stuttered, and Alexei nodded.

Saint couldn’t think of a better revenge. But before he wiped them all out, he needed to see Petrov one last time. It might turn out to be a reckless move, but he needed closure with the monster who’d given him the majority of his scars.

Leaving Alexei and Zaitsev alone was slightly risky, but Saint came prepared and had a fun gadget, courtesy of Zane, that would lock them in the lab until he returned.

“I’ll be back,” he told them. “Be ready to release the gas and then get the hell out of here.”

He strode out, shut the door and grabbed the key-sized door jam from his pocket. Made of stainless steel, it couldwithstand six-hundred pounds of pressure and would easily keep those scrawny fools inside until he returned.

After securing the jammer between the door latch and strike plate, Saint headed straight for Petrov’s private domain. Hopefully, the man would be there. If not, Saint would go hunting.

Luckily for Saint, Petrov was a creature of habit who rarely varied his routine when he was at the compound, and Saint remembered his schedule. Currently, the Bratva ruler was in his massive bedroom taking a nap, which made it a perfect time for Saint to strike. He easily took down the guard at the door, quickly snapping his neck, then stepped inside, gun in hand.

Anton Petrov woke with a jolt when a bullet from the Udav sank into the pillow inches away from his face. Startled, he jumped up and reached for the gun beside him, but Saint fired again, hitting his hand. Petrov cried out and Saint smirked, noticing the scar on the man’s cheek and the two crooked fingers on his opposite hand, both courtesy of Dash Slater.

“Nikolai,” Petrov gasped. “You dare enter the lion’s den again? How many times will you get bitten before you learn?”

“It’s going to end differently this time,” Saint said, creeping closer.

Petrov had the gall to smile as blood soaked through the sheet he wrapped around his wounded hand. “It’ll never end differently. You’ll always be the unwanted, unloved orphan I plucked off the street and saved. I should’ve let you freeze to death for all the grief you’ve brought me. You’ve always been an ungrateful shit.”

“You turned me into a killer. A man without a conscience,” Saint growled.

“I put a roof over your head and food in your empty belly. And how did you repay me? By betraying me and giving the FSS intel on my organization. You’re lucky you’re still breathing. I showed you mercy.”

“Mercy?” Saint scoffed. “You tortured me to within an inch of my life.”

“You deserved it.”

“I never would’ve turned if you hadn’t sacrificed me. You sent me to prison to rot.”

“You needed to be tougher. I knew the Vory would either break you or instill a deep hate that would strengthen you. Besides, back then I needed you on the inside, gathering support for the Bratva.”

“You betrayed me,” Saint hissed.

“And I’d do it again, you thankless shit.” Before the words left his mouth, Petrov rolled off the edge of the bed, dropping to the floor and out of sight.

Stalking forward, Saint rounded the corner of the bed and saw Petrov lifting another gun which must’ve been tucked under his mattress. But Saint was faster and pulled his trigger first. Petrov cried out, his shot going wide, then slumped back against the nightstand. The hole in his chest oozed bright red blood.

“You’ll always be alone…” Petrov predicted, the pain making him grimace. “An unwanted, useless, nameless nobody.”

“Fuck you,” Saint snarled. For good measure, he fired two more times, a bullet in each leg so the asshole wouldn’t be able to run anywhere when the Novichok came pouring through the vents.

---