Page 47 of Hers to Control

Anya’s messages not only gave me an address and information about the back entrance of another one of the Russian-owned clubs, but she also promised to give me the go ahead for when I should go in. It’s about as safe as trusting a viper, but I don’t give a fuck. I need to get to Mia and if this is the risk I have to take, I’ll do it.

The alleyway behind the Russian-owned club reeks of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The dim light flickering overhead probably does little to light the street at night, but, as it’s daytime, I’m more concerned about being too visible as I approach the back door Anya told me to use.

My phone lights up with a new message.

‘Go now.’

My hand clenches around the handle of my gun as I glance around, ensuring that I’m alone before swiftly inputting the code Anya gave me into the lock on the door. When the little light turns green, I slip in, feeling like this is too easy.

Inside, I’m met with the sounds of muffled voices and distant footsteps echoing from above. The main entrance of the building is on a higher level, whereas I seem to be in a basement corridor, a row of doors lining the left side.

I give myself a moment to listen for any movement. Then I walk down the empty corridor, carefully looking into each dimly lit room, my eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of Mia. Most of the doors are open, holding boxes of supplies needed for the club above. One of the closed doors requires me to pick the lock, but instead of Mia, all I find is a shit ton of ammunition. I close the door and move on to the next.

There are sounds coming from this one, but they are low and muffled. Again, I pick the lock. It’s a simple lock, nothing fancy, and I get the door open quickly. When I look into the dark room, movement has me pointing my gun. Once my eyes adjust, I see that there is no one here I need to worry about. A few pairs of wide eyes stare up at me, while the other women in the room have their heads lowered, their arms protectively wrapped around them. I’m guessing those are the ones who’ve been here the longest. The ones still looking up at someone entering aren’t quite as broken, though by the looks of them, it won’t be long before all they can do is cower, too.

Perhaps the police would like a tip, so they can raid this shit hole.

Not now, though. I get out of the room, breathing in deeply when the stench of urine lessens. Not sure how I didn’t notice the smell before. I need to pay better attention. I move further along the corridor. Outside the last door, a roll of duct tape is lying on the floor. I push it away with my foot before I try the door handle. It opens without resistance, and then I see her, bound to a chair, her face streaked with tears.

Something in me clenches with a mixture of relief and fury as I move towards her. Before I can reach her, a hulking figure steps out of the shadows, blocking my path with a sneer of contempt. His foot kicks my right hand and my gun goes flying.

I’m a fucking idiot.

No time to waste, though. Sidestepping a punch, I pull my knife from its sheath and grip it tightly, feeling its weight and balance as though it were an extension of my own body. A gun would be quicker, but I fucked that up good.

It’s not a problem, though. The guy facing me now isn’t armed with a gun either. Like me, he’s pulled a knife. When it comes down to it, I prefer the efficiency of a knife and dislike the chanceof someone else getting hit by a stray bullet – someone like Mia. So this works just fine.

The guy approaches and we circle each other, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the walls. He has one eye covered by a makeshift bandage, but despite that and his considerable size, the guy’s movements are fluid and precise. What he lacks is my motivation, though. I’m willing to risk anything for this, and I doubt that asshole feels the same. And the willingness to take a hit if necessary is key in a knife fight, because getting cut should be expected. You need to accept the pain before the fight even starts.

I mirror his movements, matching him step for step as we size each other up, searching for any weakness to exploit. Sneering at him, I wait him out. Patience is a virtue. I’m no priest, but I like to kill and there is no better way than letting your opponent run right into your trap.

As expected, with a sudden burst of speed, the Russian lunges forward, his knife flashing in the dim light as he aims for my chest. I react instinctively, sidestepping his attack with a swift pivot of my body, the blade grazing my shirt as it whistles past. In one smooth motion, I counter with a jab of my own, aiming for his exposed flank with lethal precision.

This is a game I’ve played many times, and this time the stakes are higher, so I’ll be damned if I let some asshole get in my way, but he’s quick to recover. He parries my blow with a deft flick of his wrist, the sound of metal meeting metal ringing out in the cramped space. We trade blows in a flurry of motion, each strike met with an equally swift counter as we move across the floor.

Like me, this asshole has done this before. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, heightening my senses to a razor’s edge as I focus on the task at hand. Every movement is calculated, every strike aimed with deadly intent as we fight. He has one advantage. The guy doesn’t give a fuck that we’re movingcloser to Mia, but I can’t let him get too close. Can’t let him use her against me, or have her get injured by accident. That’s simply unacceptable.

Then, I see my opening. With a quick feint to the left, I catch the asshole off guard, his momentary hesitation all the opening I need. I lunge forward, my blade slicing through the air as it finds its mark, drawing blood. But he’s not finished yet. With a roar of rage, he launches himself at me once more, seeking to regain the upper hand. I’m ready for him, though, deflecting his blows and ignoring the pain as his knife slices my arm.

He expects me to flinch back, and that’s his mistake. With a final strike, I disarm him, sending his knife clattering to the ground with a metallic clang. He stumbles backward, his eyes wide with disbelief as he realizes he’s fucked. My chest heaves with exertion, but I don’t waste time. Stepping into his punch, I drive my knife into his gut, drawing it up with all my strength, before pulling it out again and aiming for his heart. I stab him right under the sternum, then twist my hand to aim slightly upwards and directly towards his spine. My reward is a swell of blood oozing out of his wound.

When I’m sure he isn’t getting up, I go to retrieve my gun. Everything in me wants to rush to Mia, but I need to deal with this first. Picking up my gun, I push it into the waistband of my pants. Then, I turn back to the Russian asshole lying on the floor. In one swift motion, I slit his throat. Better safe than sorry, and I enjoy the second crimson stain now spreading around the collar of the Russian’s shirt.

Finally able to ignore the dead guy, I cross the room.

Mia is staring at me wide-eyed. Her face is bruised and her eyes red-rimmed. There is blood on her lower lip where it split, but it’s her vacant expression and lack of reaction to seeing me that is scaring me the most. She’s looking at me like those other girls in the next room.

“Mia, it’s me. I’m here to get you out. Everything’s going to be okay.” Not that I am sure about that, but what else am I supposed to say? I suck at talking to people, and crying women are low on my list of things I give a shit about. Mia is different, though.

Rage burns its way through me when my eyes take in the deep gash across her naked chest and belly. Whether it’s the blood or the thoughts of what else she might have had to endure that’s worse is impossible to say.

As I untie her, she begins to sob, and the sight of her being so broken makes me want to kill every single person in the building. But first I need to get her to safety.

My fingers are wet with her blood by the time her restraints are off, making me wish I’d had more time to kill the fucker now staining the floor beside us, but there is no time to dwell on that now.

Mia allows me to wrap her arm around my shoulders and I check the hallway before half-dragging her towards the exit. I may have used a silencer, but the guy had bellowed loud enough that I still half expect a bunch of Tsepov’s guys to show up.

Only when we make it into my car and I turn on the engine, do I relax somewhat. Not that the feeling lasts long. Not when I look in the rearview mirror and see that Mia is hunched over in the back seat, exactly where I put her. She hasn’t moved a muscle. The only proof I have that she’s alive are the sobs shaking her shoulders.

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