Page 36 of Confession
Joe stills as he realizes what I’m thinking. “If that’s how you want to do shit, you could’ve just ordered it—”
“You don’t have an armored vehicle.”
“Then let me take this one! This is my fucking job—”
“Get over your pride, Joe. Get the men ready to sweep in during the chaos.”
“Vitali—”
I shove Joe out of the way with my foot and yank the door shut. Glaring at me through the window, Joe whips his radio from his belt. Barking orders, he goes storming back to his position.
I tell Roman, “Get out.”
My brother doesn’t even look at me. He draws his guns and rests his scarred hands on his thighs.
“Roman. Get the fuck out.”
“No.”
I stare at the side of his face and watch him tap into the deep reserve of strength, endurance, and brutality inside himself. It gathers in his dark eyes. It makes a muscle bulge in his jaw.
“Goddamn it.” I don’t have time to fight him on this. I put the Jeep in drive and creep past Joe’s truck.
From the woods, Joe’s hand signal—a raised middle finger motioning forward—tells me the men are ready and that Joe is still pissed.
That’s fine. He’ll still do his job.
I breathe out and let my mind empty. I hit the gas.
The Jeep roars into the clearing, and we barrel toward the dilapidated barn, slamming into the slatted doors. They burst open. One is ripped off its hinges and goes flying into the dim interior. Shots fire from several directions.
I slam on the brakes and let the Jeep slide in an arc until it slams into a row of support posts, rocking me and Roman inside the vehicle. The hayloft collapses, bringing a section of rotting loft down on the Jeep. The guy perched up there comes down with the wood and goes rolling across the dirt floor.
Roman’s door is jammed up against the remains of a post, but mine is clear. I throw it open and spring out, snatching my guns from my chest holster. I fire at the guy who fell from the hayloft as he scrambles for cover, winging him as he dives into a stall.
I hunt for the other shooter, but I don’t spot him in time. Pain flashes across my left arm as shots fire. I locate the asshole, but he’s already falling from the rafters with his rifle—because Roman is firing from the Jeep’s sunroof. He spares a moment to glare at me.
More shots fire, some from the stall and others from the shadows under the collapsed hayloft. Roman ducks down into the Jeep as bullets pepper it, and I dive around to the back for cover.
Joe and the others swarm into the barn as I’m firing at the rotted side of the stall. A scream says I hit something, so I hustle out from behind the Jeep, staying low as I cross to the stall.
I have to duck back as shots meet me at the door, but when there’s a click, I sweep in. The asshole is reaching for another gun, so I shoot his hand. He screams.
I don’t want to kill him, so I holster my guns and go after him.
He’s injured, but his adrenaline is running high. He lunges up to meet me. I grab him, kick the side of his knee, and slam him to the ground.
Shots are still firing elsewhere in the barn as my opponent scrambles partway up. I wrestle him into a headlock, and he uses the last of his strength to slam me into the wall. Boards crack and fresh pain flashes in my arm, but I take the fucker down onto his face.
Joe and Cotter rush into the stall and help me get the guy in cuffs. I let them take over as I go out into the dusty, dim space of the barn to check on Roman and the others.
My brother is nowhere to be seen.
“Where the fuck is Roman?”
“Outside,” Martini tells me with a jerk of his head then adds, “He’s fine!” when I take a running step toward the door. “Leave him, Vitali, he’s cooling down.”
I can’t do that because I need to lay eyes on my brother, but I do slow to a walk. The instant I’m outside, hands grab me. I’m spun and slammed into the side of the building. Reflexively, I bring up my knee and slam it into my attacker’s hip, but it’s Roman.
