Page 127 of Toxic Salvation
Osip spins, but the angle’s all wrong. The shooter has him lined up.
I take the shot myself. Clean hit to the shoulder. The man stumbles but doesn’t go down. His rifle swings toward Osip, finger already squeezing the trigger.
My gun clicks empty.
“Fuck.”
I drop the useless weapon and sprint forward. The gunman fires just as I slam into Osip, driving us both to the ground. Hot fire tears through my left arm, but Osip’s alive.
That’s what matters.
“Shit, were you hit?” Osip scrambles to his knees, blood on his face from where we hit the concrete.
“Just a graze.” I press my right hand against the wound. Blood seeps between my fingers, warm and sticky. “I’m fine.”
Headlights flood the warehouse as vehicles screech to a halt outside. Car doors slam. Pavel’s voice rips through the space, barking orders.
“About damn time,” Osip mutters.
I tear a strip from my shirt and tie it around my arm, pulling tight to slow the bleeding. By the time Pavel and his team finish mopping up, I’m on my feet again.
“How many did we lose?” I ask.
“None of ours. But we’ve got two wounded—Vlad took one in the leg, Misha’s got a shoulder wound.” Pavel’s gaze drops to my improvised bandage. “Make that three wounded.”
I ignore him. “What about their people?”
“Six shooters, all dead. Tried to grab one but he ate his own bullet before we could question him.”
Of course he did. Ihor’s not taking any chances with loose ends.
“Someone get those lights working,” I order.
“Can’t. They fried the electrical panel.”
Grimacing, I walk over to the line of bodies. All of them are young, maybe early twenties. Hired muscle, not career criminals. Probably promised more money than they’d ever seen to hit one of our warehouses.
“Ko.” Pavel appears at my elbow. “You need to get that arm looked at.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. And if Vesper finds out you got shot and didn’t go to a hospital, she’ll have my head.” He crosses his arms. “You’re going. End of discussion.”
Osip chuckles from the shadows. “Domestic life has really changed you, brother.”
“Shut up.”
But he’s not wrong. Six months ago, I would have wrapped this wound with duct tape and called it good. When did I become the kind of man who worries about his pregnant girlfriend’s reaction to his work injuries? When did I become the kind of man who throws himself in front of bullets for his friends because he can’t stand the thought of explaining their deaths to his family?
“Fine,” I growl. “We’ll go to the hospital. But we avoid the pediatric ward. Vesper’s working tonight and I don’t want her to?—”
My phone vibrates with a text from Vesper.Are you fucking serious?
I look up at Pavel. “You fucking didn’t.”
He holds up his hands in self-defense. “I had no choice, brother. She’s scary when she’s pregnant. And she’s a doctor, too. Figured she should know her boyfriend got shot.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
