Page 94 of Reaper
His face goes granite hard; a nod, and a gesture is all it takes, and Diesel is on his feet and Mayhem is protectively putting his arm around Mrs. Eng and guiding her down from the karaoke stage while whispering something in her ear that turns her smiling face into a grim mask.
We move as a unit toward the exit, Tank taking point while Diesel brings up the rear. Mrs. Eng clutches her martini glass like it's a weapon, her eyes sharp despite the alcohol. The karaoke crowd is too drunk and loud to notice us weaving through the bar, but my skin crawls with the certainty that we're being watched.
The heavy door swings open, and we step into the Sacramento night. The air hits my face, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of asphalt, exhaust, and old, warm trash. Our black limo sits under a flickering streetlight twenty yards away, and my heart drops into my boots.
Four Russians circle the vehicle like wolves, their weapons catching the orange glow. Machetes, baseball bats, a coupleof hunting knives. One of them is taking a crowbar to the rear window while another slashes at the tires with methodical precision. They're not trying to steal it — they're making sure we can't leave.
"Shit," Tank breathes beside me.
"Stupid trash Boris!" Mrs. Eng's voice cuts through the night like a blade. Before any of us can react, she hurls her martini glass in a perfect arc. It catches the nearest Russian square in the face, gin and vermouth exploding across his features. He staggers backward, clawing at his eyes and screaming.
I catch Adriana's eye, and we share a look of pure disbelief. Boris? She calls them Boris too?
But there's no time to do more than share a look, because the other three Russians have spotted us and they're charging with murder in their eyes.
"Mrs. Eng, stay back!" I shout, already moving.
Tank and Diesel fan out to my left while I go straight up the middle. Adriana moves with me despite the blood still seeping through her shirt, her face set in grim determination. The Russian with the machete reaches us first, swinging the blade in a vicious arc toward my face. I duck; the steel whistles over my scalp, and I come up inside his guard, driving my elbow into his solar plexus. He doubles over, gasping, and I grab the machete handle, twisting until his grip breaks.
To my right, Tank has the crowbar guy in a headlock while Diesel grapples with the one carrying a Louisville Slugger. The bat cracks against the limo's hood, leaving a dent the size of a man’s head.
The Russian I disarmed tries to tackle me around the waist. I sidestep and bring the machete handle down on the back of his skull, sending him face-first into the asphalt. He plants his hands against the asphalt like he’s going to push himself up, and I press the tip of the machete to the back of his neck.
“Don’t make me, Boris,” I say.
He freezes.
Then Mrs. Eng’s voice cuts through the sound of combat. “Cut that Boris head off.”
“I will,” I say.
“Don’t.”
“Then stop fucking around, Boris.”
“My name is Mikhail.”
“Do you really want to die on this hill, Boris?”
“No,” he says, and lies limp on the ground. “I’ll be a good Boris.”
"Good Boris," I say, keeping the blade steady.
A crash echoes behind me. Tank has slammed his Russian into the limo's door hard enough to spider the window, while Diesel finishes his dance with the bat-wielder by introducing the guy's face to his knee. The crack of cartilage breaking carries across the parking lot. The Russian that Mrs. Eng threw her glass at is still on his knees, pawing at his face. He might be blind.
"That's all of them," Tank calls out, breathing hard. The Russian with the crowbar lies unconscious at his feet, blood pooling from his nose.
"For now." I step back from my Boris but keep the machete ready. "Adriana's right — there's more coming."
Mrs. Eng surveys the carnage with the satisfaction of a general reviewing a successful battle. "These Boris are very stupid. Attack a lady during karaoke? No class."
Mayhem appears at my shoulder, keys jangling in his hand. "Time to roll, yeah? This neighborhood's gonna be crawling with cops in about three minutes."
I glance at the limo. The rear window's a spiderweb of cracks, and two tires are definitely flat — rubber hanging in shreds from the rims. "Can we even drive that thing?"
"Can we drive it?" Mayhem grins, a manic gleam lighting up his eyes. "Brother, I once drove a Humvee thirty miles on three wheels and a prayer through Kandahar. This is just Tuesday night for me."
“It isn’t Tuesday night.”
