Page 65 of Hateful Vows
Irina left her sniper rifle behind, preferring her classic beretta and knives she throws with deadly precision. Two men fall, a blade in between their hateful eyes, now vacant. She looms over Jivko’s body and spits. “Should have taken more than your tongue,” she mumbles in Russian.
The strength that shot must have required… I don’t have time to let awe bloom. Manslaughter is my only goal.
I take aim and shoot one of the guards, the crimson blood spreading underneath his corpse soothing me. But it’s not enough.
I throw myself at the next man who comes at me. Popov.
“You fucking traitor,” I yell.
The butt of my gun snaps against his cheekbone, a satisfying crack reverberating along my arm. He gives as good as he gets, more fit than I gave him credit for, for his age.
“You’re the traitor here, Aleksei. Your father always knew how worthless you were.”
His words would have hurt months ago, but I’m not that man anymore. I’m not a puppet for evil, waiting silently for a sign of love I should have been getting while he treated me worse than a dog.
“Yet I will live, and you’ll die just like him,” I tell him.
We battle with fists and body strength. But air is stolen from my lungs as he punches me in the diaphragm.
I cough, brace for the next hit. It doesn’t come. Dante holds the man by his hair, then slashes a hunting knife across his throat. Popov’s eyes widen but the light extinguishes fast in them.
He drops dead and Dante winks at me. “My cock in your mouth in thanks will suffice.”
I blink. And it cost him.
Another guard shoots at his back. He staggers before falling onto his knees, wheezing like he can’t get enough air in.
“Dante!” Irina yells and I sprint into action, pulling the trigger so many times I empty a full magazine on the culprit.
My heart jumps in my throat at seeing the man who steps in front of Irina, massive and threatening. Her ire is a thing to behold. I watch, riveted, as she thrusts one of her knives into her assailant’s side, distracting him enough with the pain of a minor injury to inflict a deadly one. A second knife juts out of his throat now, his gurgled voice still clear enough for him to say, “you fucking bitch.”
“Dead men's insults carry no weight.”
She spits in his face, yanks the knife out of his throat and stabs him again, right in the eye socket this time. He’s already dead but she needs the outlet.
And Dante needs my help.
I fall to my knees at his side. Then, I drag him to rest against the sticky wall. The fight is dying down around us. The Angel of Death has his eyes set on Misha’s second-in-command whoseems to be the last one standing. I signal for Dan to help the man and refocus my attention on Dante.
I cut open his tee-shirt looking for the bullet hole, ready to press my bare hands onto the wound and stop the blood from flowing out of his body.
But there’s no blood.
Kevlar greets me and I sigh a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.
“You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re okay.” I clasp his arms, touch his chest. “Fucking hell, don’t scare me like this, Ventura.”
“It hurts like a motherfucker,” he rasps.
“Why didn’t you watch your back?” I almost yell at the aggressively annoying man in my arms.
“It seemed more of a priority to taunt you at the time.”
“Tell me hindsight just taught you a lesson.”
His only response is a shit-eating grin and I push him out of my arms. He chuckles then coughs and I almost regret being rough with him. My adrenaline levels are returning to normal and heaviness settles on my limbs.
The sound of the dying has been replaced with the chilly silence of death already collecting its due.
