Page 4 of Lethal Alliance

We make it about thirty meters before Masha screams, a high-pitched sound of terror that cuts me to the bone. Her hand jerks out of mine, and I stop and turn, but it’s too late. One of the guards has her firmly in his grip. The other one tackles me, and I hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind from my body, the guard on top of me. I struggle, trying to push him off, and he laughs, thrusting his thigh between mine.

He puts his mouth close to my ear. His breath smells like cigarettes and old alcohol.

“Keep struggling, littleblyat.That’s just how I like it.” A long blade comes up, right next to my face, the metal edge gleaming in the airport lights. He puts the tip of it against my skin, right next to my eye. “Now tell your sister to calm the fuck down.”

I turn my head uselessly on the ground and see Masha, her legs kicking frantically, in the grip of another guard.

“’Felia!” she screams.

“Do as I say, and I won’t cut her.” The guard on top of me thrusts his hips obscenely into my groin then pulls me to my feet. He turns me around, holding me roughly against him, his knife still against my face.

“Do as they say, Masha.” I try as hard as I can to keep my voice steady.

My little sister stares at me, her eyes wide and furious, her legs still kicking. “Let ’Felia GO!”

“Sounds like she needs a little more encouragement.” The guard pushes the tip of his knife into my temple and drags it down the side of my face, opening my skin in a flash of white-hot, searing pain. Masha’s shrill scream gets higher.

“Shut up,” snarls the guard holding Masha, “or we’ll make your sister hurt even more.”

Masha’s scream cuts off midair, and she stares at me in horror. Blood drips into my eye, obscuring my vision.

“Looks like we got her attention,” the guard murmurs in my ear. I can hear the excitement in his voice. “Maybe one more cut, just to drive the lesson home—”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The cold, hard voice cuts through the night, stilling the knife hand of my attacker.

The guard swings around, aiming his rifle at the newcomer, his knife still at my throat.

I try to blink away the blood streaming into my eyes so I can see clearly.

The man facing me is the most frightening I’ve ever seen. Dressed entirely in black, he’s as tall as Roman, with a patch over one eye. His good eye is a hard, arctic blue, staring at the man holding me with an expression so flat and cold it sends a chill through me.

It’s like he’s dead already.

“What are you doing here?” The guard with his knife at my throat snarls the question. “You’re supposed to be on the boat—”

“A boat you idiots made fucking sure every coast guard in the country is currently chasing. Quite the oversight in planning, it seems.” He walks toward us slowly, without an ounce of fear for the guns currently pointing at him. “Or perhaps,” he says silkily, “it wasn’t an oversight at all. Either way, I’ll be taking it from here.”

“You can’t do that. We don’t take orders from Orlov’s mad dog.” But the guard’s eyes are moving around uneasily, and even I can hear the fear in his voice.

The man’s lips curl contemptuously. “You do now.” He nods, and a group of men emerge from the darkness, their automatic weapons pointing at the guards holding us. “Put your guns down,” the man says coldly, “and let the girls go.”

The guards look around warily, but they’re outnumbered ten to one. They release us and put their guns on the ground.

Masha runs to me. I hold her tightly, looking for an escape, but I already know there isn’t one. Men surround us, but at least now their guns are pointing at our original attackers, not at Masha and me.

The guard who cut me glares at the man with the eye patch. “You’re making a big fucking mistake, Petrovsky.”

Petrovsky?

I know that’s Lucia’s real family name, just like I know the Orlovs are the people chasing her. Mickey might not tell me everything he knows, but he’s told me that much.

I feel a nervous flicker of hope. One that fades almost as soon as it rises.

Petrovsky’s hard face has none of Lucia’s warmth. And his lone eye is terrifyingly blank, like an icy abyss.

“A mistake, huh?” Petrovsky’s voice is cold as winter. “Not nearly as big as the one you just made, friend.” He smiles, a chilling sneer that doesn’t reach his eyes, and holds up his right hand in a clenched fist. A red sparrow, vivid as blood, is tattooed on it. The red ink gleams in the lights of the plane. “Vilnus Orlov thanks you for your service.”

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