Page 24 of Brutal Promise

“Okaaaay,” she hisses. I figure she has a million questions running through that intelligent mind of hers.

“Keep your eyes on me and let out a laugh like I told you a joke.”

She chuckles and covers her mouth like she’s laughing too much. It appears she can act too. I’m so fucked. She’ll be running circles around me in no time.

“The men from the apartment complex are across the street. You’ll get up and act like you are heading to the bathroom down the hallway. Please go through the kitchen, out the back door, and wait for me in the alley. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” It’s obvious she’s scared, and it’s justified.

“Okay, I’m returning your purse under the table. Take it, then get up and leave.”

She does as she’s told, and as soon as she’s out of sight, I follow.

In the alley, I grab her hand and pull her past dumpsters smelling of rotting food. As we turn the corner to double back to the car, two huge men block us. The goons.Fuck.They are smarter than I thought. I’m sure the broken tracker tipped them off.Shit.

One has his hand in his jacket pocket, clearly concealing a gun pointed at me. “We’ll take the girl.”

“I think you made a mistake,” I reply.

“Grab her,” he says to the tall man beside him.

I’m surprised to hear a brogue accent. How did the Irish appear on Russian turf without being seen by the Bratva soldiers protecting Alena?

Izzy gives me a quick look, and I read the panic in her eyes.

“What am I to do?”

“Go with the man nicely, and we’ll let your boyfriend live,” the burly man with the gun stipulates.

He points with his gun to indicate that she needs to walk to his partner. As she takes a step, she trips on a crack in the pavement and tumbles forward. The man who was waiting for her takes his cue and reaches for her arms as she falls, giving me enough time to draw my gun. I shoot the first man in the chest, but not before he fires a shot. I hear the whizz, and a familiar burning sensation hits my left arm. The surviving man clutches Izzy to his chest as if his life depends on it.

And it does.

“You made a mistake.” He pulls a knife from a side pocket in his coat and holds it to her throat. “Toss your gun. Now!”

His beady eyes dart. He has to make a getaway, but he lost his partner. The gunshots were bound to attract attention. We’re going to be found out any second.

“Let her go, and I’ll let you go. We can both live to see another day,” I shout.

“I can’t return without her.” He begins to back up. But I know he has to get to his car, so I shoot his knee. He cries in pain, and his pocketknife slips from his hand as he falls to the ground, clutching his leg. Izzy tries to run, but his hand catches her ankle.

She screams and tries to kick, using her free leg as leverage, but her effort is useless. The man’s large hands and tight grip are no match for her. I kick him in the face, and blood splatters everywhere. He lets go of her leg to protect his broken nose, and Izzy moves backward, step by step. I begin to kick the man in the gut and ribs. He groans. This isn’t a clean hit, but I don’t want to fire my weapon again. He pulls me to the ground, and I get him in a chokehold and snuff out his life. It all transpires quickly and quietly.

“Go to the sidewalk and cross the street, don’t look back,” I yell as I look for cameras and thankfully see none.

I use my shirt to wipe my fingerprints off the gun and approach the dead man, promptly putting my gun in his lifeless hand. I take his gun, wiping it down before I slip it into my hidden holster. “I’ll be behind you,” I yell to Izzy, hoping she will overcome her shock and do as I say.

I quickly look for witnesses. By some stroke of luck, no one is around, and more importantly, no one is filming this with their phone. I jog to a tree, yanking green leaves off it, and use them to wipe blood splatter off my boots. All the while, I’m keeping an eye on Izzy. She’s crossing the road. I hold my breath. How deep is this conspiracy to grab her? How long has this been going on, and to what lengths will they go to get her? Strike that. I know what they’re willing to do. These men have desperation in their eyes. They might be indebted to the Irish and doing a job for them without the proper skill set.

I jog to catch up with Izzy. Even though my arm hurts like a son of a bitch and my damaged leg protests, we walk quickly away from the crime scene.

I text Kirill on my burner phone to get us. The cops will be here soon, and it's only noon. We have to be back at the condo to meet Kirill, and now, I assume Alena will be present.

“What was that? Who were those guys? You killed someone! What are we going to do? I can’t go to prison,” she cries, then sobs. Tears the size of pebbles flow down her high cheekbones. “I can’t see,” she murmurs and sobs even more as she brushes her hand down her face. Like swiping a bank card that isn’t working, she continually repeats the movement.

I know from taking my first life that every emotion runs through your body when you witness a death that’s violent and personal. You’d have to be a sociopath not to feel something. Then again, mafia organizations are known to have a few.

I wrap my arm around her shoulders to calm her, and we walk down a side road to wait for Kirill. He had to turn around to get us. I could call an Uber, but the driver would be a potential witness and a loose end. I don’t want to take an innocent life.

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