Page 97 of Dirty Damage

The gun he pulls out is matte black and terrifyingly businesslike. No flashy chrome or ivory handle like in the movies.

This is a weapon meant for one purpose only: killing.

“Th-that’s a g-gun…”

I told myself—no, Ipromisedmyself that I would never again be involved with any man who’s involved in shit like this.

I learned my lesson with Drew.

Memories of my ex flash through my mind—the still-warm weapons he’d casually toss onto our kitchen counter, the mysterious meetings, the constant edge of danger that eventually drove me away.

I swore I was finished with this kind of life.

Yet here I am, watching another dangerous man prepare for violence.

When I don’t move fast enough, Oleg’s hand clamps around my arm. He pushes me down just as the first shot cracks through the night air.

The sound is deafening, nothing like the muted pops you hear on TV.

This is primal, visceral.

It’s what death sounds like.

“Oh my God!” I press my hands over my ears, trying to block out the chaos erupting around us.

The limo accelerates sharply, sending me to the floor. I crawl to the center of the car as the mini fridge bursts open. Sparkling water and imported sodas spill across the leather, bottles flying around as Uri takes another hard turn.

I risk a glance up at Oleg. His expression steals my breath.

Where there should be fear or anger, there’s only lethal focus. He cocks the gun with practiced ease, the click of metal on metal sending shivers down my spine.

More shots ring out, and I can’t hold back my squeal as we swerve again. The bulletproof glass must be doing its job because we’re still alive, but that doesn’t stop my heart from trying to punch through my ribcage.

“Whatever happens,” Oleg snarls through my panic, “don’t get up.”

Then he does the unthinkable: He reaches for the window control.

I want to scream at him to stop. To get down here with me.

I can’t watch you die.

But the glass is already sliding down, cold night air whipping into the cabin, stealing my voice and my courage.

Bullets pepper the limo’s exterior like deadly hail. The sound is oddly muffled, as if we’re underwater. Armored panels, I realize distantly.

The whole car is a fortress on wheels.

Oleg leans out the window, muscled torso twisting as he takes aim. In the orange glow of streetlights, he looks carved from marble—a vengeful god dealing death from above.

The gun barks in his hand once, twice, three times.

Unable to stop myself, I sit up a little taller. I don’t know if I want to roll out of the car or drag Oleg back into the safety of the limo with me.

Before I can decide, a masked rider surges forward.

Through the lowered window, I catch sight of his leather jacket, the emblem emblazoned across his shoulders. Something about it tugs at a memory, but before I can place it, the sound of a gunshot rips my thought to shreds.

Oleg’s bullet finds its mark.

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