Page 141 of Twisted Pact
Movement catches my eye near the gate. A figure separating from the shadows. Tall. Moving with intent rather than panic.
Novikov.
“I see him,” I tell Dmitri through the phone. “He’s heading for the east gardens.”
“Cut him off from the north. I’ll come from the south. And Alexei… don’t do anything stupid.”
I almost laugh. “Too late for that.”
I move quickly across the grounds, keeping covered. My boots crunch on broken glass and shell casings. The east gardens are surrounded by high hedges that create a natural arena.
Perfect.
I enter through the south entrance with my gun raised. The garden is eerily quiet after the chaos of the assault. Moonlight filters through the trees across the manicured paths.
“Kozlov.” Novikov’s voice echoes from somewhere ahead. “I knew you’d come.”
I don’t respond. I continue to move forward, scanning every shadow.
“All this for a woman,” he continues. “Your father would be ashamed.”
“My father is dead because men like you think loyalty is weakness.”
“Your father is dead because he got soft. Just like you.”
I round a hedge and spot him standing in the center of the garden. His gun hangs loosely at his side. Blood stains his shirt, but he’s still standing. And dangerous.
“You should have stayed out of it,” I tell him.
“You should have just walked away from the girl and her family. It would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble.”
“That was never going to happen.”
He raises his gun, and so do I. We stand twenty feet apart with weapons aimed at each other.
“One of us walks away,” he states.
“Just one.”
We fire simultaneously. His shot goes wide as he dives left. Mine catches his shoulder and spins him around. He hits the ground, rolls, and comes up shooting.
I wince as the bullet grazes my ribs. Hot pain flares, but I close the distance between us, emptying my magazine into the hedge he’s using for cover.
When he emerges from the other side, his firearm clicks as he pulls the trigger. His gun is empty, too. We lock eyes across the moonlit garden.
This ends now.
I drop my weapon and charge. He meets me halfway. We collide with bone-crushing force as his fist connects with my jaw. I drive my elbow into his wounded shoulder, and he roars in pain.
We grapple, trading blows. Years of violence and training are poured into every strike. He’s experienced, but he’s fighting for pride.
I’m fighting for everything that matters.
I get behind him and lock my arm around his throat. He claws at my forearm to break the hold. His strength fades with blood loss.
“This is for every threat you made,” I growl in his ear. “Every time you put her in danger.”
He makes a choking sound, and his movements become weaker.
