Page 81 of What Doesn't Kill Us

I toss my weapons to the side, putting my hands up. The group of men split down the middle, and then there’s Dmitri, walking nonchalantly toward me. I’m watching the men more than him, assessing their demeanor to see who is invested in him and his mission.

Dimitri stops when he’s only a handful of yards from me. He grins, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. Everyone stops moving and stands there, staring at each other, no one saying anything. Dimitri has the most insufferable look of satisfaction on his face, so finally, I laugh kind of awkwardly. “Well, isn’t this pleasant? As much as I’d like to stay and hang out, I should probably get going.”

Dmitri raises his eyebrows and gives me an unamused look. “So, I guess the rumors about your jokes are true.”

Now, I do smile. “Fuck, you’ve heard about my jokes?”

I hear a few twitters of laughter from the group of men behind him, but one glance over his shoulder, and they all fall silent again. “I didn’t mean that as a compliment. Your inability to see the big picture is the reason you’re in your current predicament.”

I snort and then shrug. “Oh, that’s not how I see it.”

He takes a step toward me, but I stand fast. “Maybe you better enlighten the rest of us, because your situation does not seem ideal.”

I scrunch my face up like I’m truly considering his words, then shake my head. “Nope. I’d rather not.”

His eyes harden, his jaw clenching, as he takes another couple of steps closer to me until he’s only a few feet from me. “I’m really looking forward to finding out what else that mouth does.”

I close the distance between us, so I press my front against his. I tilt my head back and look him in the eye. “So many things.”

He gives me a suspicious look, but he doesn’t retreat. “Ready to get right to it. I can appreciate that. But is there anything you’d like to know first?”

I reach my hand between us, grabbing onto the waistband of his pants and tugging. “The only question I have is, what are you packing?”

His eyes widen, but he still doesn’t back away. Instead, he pushes forward a bit, giving me the exact opportunity I’m looking for.

Because this arrogant piece of garbage forgot a critical rule of warfare: always pat down your enemy before running your mouth.

I do many things at once without breaking eye contact with him. I jerk him closer with one hand while my other hand disappears into the front of his trousers, the back of my hand brushing against his lower abdomen and dick.

One.

I smile up at him, laughing as he pushes his pelvis against the back of my hand.

Two.

He tries to grab onto my upper arms, but I tsk at him, and he drops them, eyeing me with interest.

Three.

Adrenaline pumps through me, and a maniacal laugh bubbles up and sneaks out.

Four.

I release his shirt, holding my hand up so he can see the pin from the hand grenade looped around my finger.

Five.

His eyes widen just in time for me to jam the pin into his eyeball as my hand twists on his balls.

Six.

He hunches over, grunting in pain, and I rear back, then smash my forehead into his face, pushing him down onto the ground. My hand that had been holding the lever in the grenade lets go, beginning the four-second countdown to detonation.

Seven.

I dive away, rolling as his men move toward me. I roll to my feet, scurrying to get away from them as I yell, “Grenade! Grenade!”

Eight.

---