Page 107 of Santa Daddy
My chest tightened. “You’re still bleeding.”
The ride couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but it felt like falling forever.
The doors opened on concrete and fluorescent lighting.
Underground garage. Low ceiling. Damp walls. The echo of distant engines. A row of vehicles in neat lines—black SUVs, a couple of sedans, one sad little hatchback that looked like it had given up years ago.
We stepped out.
For a second, it was quiet. Too quiet.
Then a man stepped from behind one of the SUVs. Tall. Broad. Jacket open over a holster.
Vlad. One of Konstantin’s guys. I recognized the dead eyes and broken nose from the tree lot.
His gun was pointed at us.
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.
“Surprised?” he asked, mouth curling.
“Not anymore,” Konstantin said. His voice had gone very soft. Very flat. “Maksim sends you?”
“Among others.” Vlad’s gaze flicked to me. Weighing. Calculating. “Nothing personal, boss. The lady’s worth more to the right people than loyalty to you.”
The floor dropped again under my bare feet.
They didn’t just want to kill us.
They wanted me.
Before I could form a scream or a plan, Konstantin moved.
One second he was at my side. The next, he was on Vlad.
He slammed into him, knocking the gun wide. It fired, the shot cracking off concrete. The muzzle flash lit their faces in a harsh strobe.
Something silver flashed in Konstantin’s hand.
Then disappeared into the side of Vlad’s neck.
Vlad’s eyes went huge. He staggered back, hands flying to the spurting wound. The sound he made was wet and wrong. He dropped to his knees, then sideways, gun clattering across the floor.
He was dead before he finished hitting the concrete.
Konstantin yanked the knife free, wiped it once on Vlad’s coat without looking down, and shoved it back into a sheath at the small of his back.
“Get in the car,” he said.
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.
My feet moved.
He headed for a black SUV tucked into the far corner—a little more armored, a little more unassuming than the others. I stumbled after him, climbing into the passenger seat on legs that barely felt attached.
The interior smelled like leather and steel and faint oil. My hands, wrapped in his blood and Vlad’s, shook against my thighs.
Konstantin slid behind the wheel, jammed a key into the ignition, and twisted. The engine came to life with a low growl.
