Page 66 of The Mafia King's Baby

Yefrem and Leonid.

Kim sees them at the same moment I do. He curses and swings his pistol toward the approaching figures, momentarily removing it from my head. The opportunity lasts less than a second, but it’s enough.

I throw myself forward against the dashboard as gunfire explodes around the SUV. The rearview window disintegrates completely under the assault. Safety glass rains down on my back as I press myself as low as possible in the seat.

The firefight is brief but intense. Kim manages to fire three rounds through the passenger window before Leonid’s shot takes him center mass. He collapses backward across the rear seat, and his weapon clatters to the floor.

Yefrem reaches the driver’s door first, yanking it open and scanning me for injuries with eyes that hold barely controlled rage. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. Shaken, but fine.” My ears are ringing, and I think I must shout the words, because he winces.

He pulls me from the vehicle and into his arms, holding me against his chest with the kind of desperate intensity that suggests he thought he’d lost me. I can feel his heart hammering against my cheek though I can’t hear anything but a whirring sound currently and smell the cordite and sweat that cling to his clothes.

“We need to move.” Leonid’s voice cuts through the moment loudly enough for me to hear, so he must be shouting. “More could be coming.”

The drive back to Sandpoint passes in tense silence. I sit in the back seat beside Yefrem with his arm around my shoulders while both of us process what just happened. Gradually, my hearingreturns to normal, and my thoughts start to become solid again. The folder of evidence rests on his lap, blood-stained but intact, and whatever the contact died trying to give us, we have it now.

“That was Agent Kim.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I recognized him from the surveillance recordings.”

Yefrem’s jaw tightens. “What did he want?”

“He wanted the location of where you’re hiding the evidence you’re compiling.” My voice cracks. “They’re planning to frame you for murdering someone named Patricia Hendricks.” I lean against his shoulder, drawing comfort from his solid presence. “They want to make it look like you killed a clean agent to cover your tracks so they can use all their resources to find you. Of course, you won’t survive the arrest.”

“Assistant Director Patricia Hendricks.” Leonid’s voice carries grim recognition. “Twenty-year veteran, spotless record, and currently investigating corruption in multiple field offices. She’s come up on our radar as a potential ally.”

Yefrem sounds disgusted. “They’re going to kill her and blame me.”

“That was the plan. Frame you for her murder and get every clean agent in the Bureau hunting you personally.” I close my eyes, trying to shut out the memory of Kim’s casual discussion of murder. “He offered me a deal of a new identity and relocation in exchange for cooperation.”

“And?”

“I told him I needed time to think. Then you showed up.”

Yefrem pulls me closer, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I should never have brought you along.”

“Don’t.” I sit up and face him directly. “Don’t apologize for treating me like a partner instead of something fragile that needs protection. I insisted on being here.”

Even as I say it, I know something fundamental has changed. Being held at gunpoint, threatened with death, and having someone casually discuss murdering me and our unborn child has altered my existence. “I want you to teach me to defend myself properly.” The words come out with more force than I intend. “Not just carrying a gun I might not be able to use effectively. Real self-defense skills.”

“Celia...”

“I refuse to be a liability, especially with a baby on the way. What happened today can’t happen again.”

He studies my face, looking for signs of trauma or shock. Whatever he sees there seems to convince him I’m serious.

“All right. We start tonight.”

A couple of hours later,back at the Sandpoint compound, Yefrem leads me to the indoor shooting range that occupies one corner of the facility. The space smells of gun oil and cordite while fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on concrete walls lined with acoustic foam.

“Show me what your father taught you.”

I take the Glock 19 he hands me, checking the chamber and safety with movements that feel rusty but familiar. The weight distribution brings back memories of Saturday afternoons at the range with my dad and the patient way he corrected my stance and breathing.

“Isosceles or Weaver?”

“Isosceles. Dad said it was more natural for most people.”

I position myself at the fifteen-yard line with feet shoulder-width apart and arms extended in a triangle formation that feels comfortable despite years without practice. The target downrange is a standard silhouette of a black outline on white paper.

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