Page 115 of Redemption

Nerves and anticipation tickled as apprehension made her worry. Perhaps she had gone overboard. Maybe one or two trucks would do the trick? But the goal was distraction, and all of the trucks were a huge distraction. It wasn’t the time to be stingy. No do-overs.

Okay. Now, decision time. She turned, her ears certain they heard the rumble of motorcycles, lots of motorcycles. More certain than ever that the Russians had shorted Mayhem, she went back to the question at hand: did she try to ignite the fumes, the gas on the parking lot, or find a piece of trash or junk, light that on fire, and toss it into the fuel?

Why hadn’t she spent more time on YouTube disaster videos?

Hell. Here goes nothing.She dropped down and put the lighter to the small river of gasoline. It took two flicks to get a flame. Maybe the first try, she’d been too nervous, but then she held it to the liquid and watched.

Fire.

It was almost beautiful as it skipped rapidly, almost benign looking. First, it was blue, and it spread, covering the top layer, yellow, red, orange, and white.

In her head, the whole thing should have become a raging flame that jumped high and, for some reason, loud.But—whoa.

The fire moved fast. Still skimming over the parking lot, it followed the fuel up to gas tanks. Black smoke started to plume. No longer was this beautiful. It was dangerous. It was a living, breathing disaster. She backed up and watched, terrified as the fire became flames. The licking lines of it started to shoot and jump. It’d taken seconds, but the heat was overwhelming.

The farm chemicals and items in the truck beds were on fire now, some smoking hot, others popping and sparking with mini-explosions. No telling what was in there to begin with. She took off, running away, feeling the soreness from the fall, worrying what might explode, unsure if a vehicle would explode. But the massive amount of accelerant was now unstoppable. The air was filled with the acrid smoke of burning metal and plastic. The wind around her was suddenly smoky and black. The heat of the fire traveled on the wind. She tripped, her head jarred and ears ringing.

Dizzy and discombobulated, she blinked, trying to get her bearings. She was on the ground. The sound of flames ravaging the vehicles tore through her senses. Victoria rolled on her side, ignoring the sting on her elbows and the sense of fresh blood from the cuts. She stumbled to a tractor on the side of the parking lot and ducked behind the giant ground-tilling blades as she watched the barn doors open and their two men run out with automatic weapons pointed toward the fire.

The flames raged, leaping taller than the barn as the two men paced the length of the building, shouting.

Rosalie ducked her head out the front of the barn door, not seeing Victoria or the men. She stood up, waving them on. Looking both ways, staring too long at the fire then deciding to move, Rosalie ran out the door, dragging the bitchy lady and the other women with her.

Goose bumps erupted all over Victoria’s skin.It worked.

Motorcycles screeched down the farm’s driveway. Headlights came from two opposite sides she knew were tractor paths but didn’t expect the Russians to take in their Mercedes.

As long as the ladies saw what was happening, they would know to move from the front of the barn and stay low.

Russians came in from two sides and Mayhem from the top center.

Dear—please—God, let the girls have gone.

All the men rushed out, weapons drawn. Blood was about to be shed. Who knew if they’d be cordial enough to share a few words of explanation first? She leaned forward, oddly, maybe professionally, interested in how this would work.

“I usually watch from the sidelines, too.”

The man’s Russian-accented English startled her, and Victoria jumped, spinning around on her butt and fumbling backward.

“I… I, um.” Vulnerable, on her bottom, weaponless, knew she could take him from this vantage. But damn, her leg was leaking a lot of blood, and she wished jumping out the window hadn’t left her so sore—not to mention tripping and hitting her head. Okay, as long as she brought down her expectations, she could bring him down. “Please, don’t,” she begged, feeling around on the ground behind her for any kind of weapon. A stick. A rock. Another screwdriver someone had forgotten to put up would be nice.

No such luck.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Not uh,” she intentionally stumbled over her words, though she didn’t have a clue.

“My name is Yuri Vashchenko.”

Her blood cooled, and all her rage and hatred focused on the man in front of her.

“And we’ve met before,” he continued. “But you weren’t awake.”

She’d kill him—even as she bit her tongue. This was the bastard who gave her to Ivan Mikhailov as a gift.

Vashchenko gestured to the men in the heated discussion that she no longer cared about. “When I was your age, the thrill of it, that was interesting to me, yes. I liked to be involved. But sitting in my car, counting my money, that’s of more interest to me now.” He grinned like a sick dog. “And that you’re going to make me money twice? I like that.”

Victoria lunged up. He had more muscles than she expected, but that had never stopped her before. Her knee nailed him in the nuts, and the butt of her palm connected with his jaw as she pushed up, jabbing her elbow into a pressure point in his neck on the downward motion.

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