Page 46 of Triplet Babies
She nods and looks around the garage with new awareness. The shadows seem deeper here, and the silence more ominous. Maybe it’s the conversation we just had, or maybe she’s finally understanding the true nature of my business.
The pick-up should be routine. It’s just medical supplies from a contact in Montreal and nothing that would draw attention from customs or competitors. I’ve done this run dozens of times without incident.
That should have been my first warning.
We’re halfway across the garage when they step out of the shadows. There are two men, armed, and moving with the fluid precision of professionals. I recognize the look immediately. They aren’t desperate criminals or opportunistic thieves. These are soldiers.
The first man is tall and lean, wearing a dark jacket that doesn’t quite conceal the shoulder holster underneath. The second is broader and older, with scarred hands that grip his weapon like he’s used it many times before. Both move with military training, spacing themselves to create crossfire angles.
I push Sarah behind the nearest concrete pillar and draw my weapon in the same motion. “Stay down.”
The first shot echoes through the garage like thunder as concrete chips explode where my head was a second before. I return fire, using the cars for cover as I advance. The men separate, trying to flank me, but they’re working the wrong angles. This is my territory. I know every shadow, every line of sight, and every ricochet pattern off these walls.
The first man goes down with a bullet to the chest, his weapon clattering across the concrete as he falls. The second gets close enough that I can see the Nikitin family tattoo on his wrist—a double-headed eagle with crossed swords—before I put two rounds center mass.
Pain flares across my ribs as his knife finds flesh in his final moments. Not deep, but deep enough that blood immediately soaks through my shirt, feeling warm and sticky against my skin.
Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the sound of my breathing and the distant hum of traffic above. I check both bodies to make sure they’re dead, noting the quality of their weapons, the tactical gear, and the way they moved. Definitely professional killers, not street thugs.
Someone paid good money to have me eliminated. If it was Katya or Leonid as I suspected, maybe this is why they’ve been so eager for me to sign the contract. Maybe they set up the hit anonymously and couldn’t contact the pros in time to reschedule. There are a few possibilities, but they all seem to lead back to the Nikitins’ machinations.
“Yarik?” Sarah’s voice is small and frightened.
“It’s over.” I holster my weapon and turn to find her pressed against the pillar, face pale but eyes alert. There’s no screaming or hysteria. She’s handling this better than most men would. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, then notices the blood on my shirt. Her face goes even paler. “Oh God, you’re bleeding.”
“It’s not serious.” I start toward the car, but she catches my arm.
“Let me look at it.”
“Sarah—”
“Please.”
Something in her eyes stops my protest. It’s not just concern but something deeper. Need, maybe. The need to do something, to help, to matter in a moment when everything has gone to hell.
I nod and let her guide me to the passenger seat. She opens the glove compartment and finds the first-aid kit I keep there, her movements efficient despite the tremor in her hands.
“Lift your shirt.”
I comply, watching her face as she examines the wound. It’s a clean cut, shallow but long, running along my lower ribs. The skin is already swelling around the edges, and blood continues to seep steadily from the gash.
She cleans it with antiseptic from the kit, her touch gentle but thorough. Each dab of the cloth makes me hiss through my teeth, but I stay still, transfixed by the concentration on her face.
“This needs stitches,” she says, examining the depth.
“It’ll hold until we get back.”
She applies butterfly bandages with careful precision, her fingers steady now despite what we’ve just been through. I watch her work, struck by her composure. Most people would be in shock after witnessing a gunfight. Sarah tends my wound like she’s done this before, as though violence is something she’s learned to handle.
The realization makes my chest tighten with a different kind of pain. “Where did you learn to do this?”
“YouTube, mostly, and necessity.” She doesn’t elaborate, but I hear the history in those words. Her hands move like she’s done this before, securing the last butterfly bandage with gentle pressure.
“Necessity?”
She pauses, her fingers still against my skin. “My ex wasn’t... careful. When he got angry, things broke. Sometimes, those things were people.”
