Page 22 of Don't Trust Him

“Right,” I whisper, an almost flirty tone to my words, “which means that my friend Grayson Teague here will do far worse things to you than your bosses can come up with in their wettest dreams. He’s a real pro, you know?”

“O-okay…” he finally sobs, raking one hand over his face as he tries to go up to his feet. “Will you let me go afterward? I...I have a family. Three children.”

“Give us the formula with no more trouble, and you’ll be able to live,” Grayson says with a deadpan face. I can’t even tell if he’s being serious. “You have my word. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee anything.”

It’s a tense moment.

But it gets broken soon.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” I hear a raspy voice say right from behind me, a Russian accent to the words. “YOU TOLD US TO MEET ALONE! ALONE!”

Turning on my heels, Beretta at the ready, I find three Russian guys standing a few feet away from us. They’re wearing tracksuits, and one of them even has a gold chain around his neck.

Oh, right, and they all have guns.

“Please explain, Alejandro,” Grayson orders him, poking him in the head with the barrel of his gun.

“I...uh...I made a deal with the Russians...I figured just in case someone found out about me and came to steal the formula. Kind of like what you’re doing now. So I made a deal with the Russian mob...I was to give them the formula, and I’d get paid enough money to disappear.”

Fuck, now even the Russians are after the formula?

“Hello, xiécoc,” Grayson tells the newcomers calmly, and I rack my brain for the little Russian I know.

“Uh, wait,” I hesitate, nudging him with my elbow. “Did you just call them cocksuckers?”

“GET THEM!” the lead Russian yells.

Ah, fuck.

The only thing Grayson and I have the time for is for a quick exchange of glances. Then we’re off, each of us jumping to different sides. Grayson drags the accountant after him, dragging him by the scruff of his shirt, and I roll behind the wall of a storage unit.

A split second later and the loud pop! of the Russian’s guns fill the night. “Fuck,” I hiss, taking the safety off my Beretta and sucking in a deep breath.

Okay, let’s do this.

As the Russians stop to reload, I take a quick peek and start firing. “Burn in hell, Vlad!” I yell, and I can’t stop a grin from spreading over my face as I see one of the Russian assholes falling to the floor like a discarded heap of clothes.

Bullseye, bitch.

I look to the side, just to check if Grayson saw what I just did, but all I see is Alejandro laying on the ground, unconscious. Grayson is nowhere to be seen, and the Russians have already started to fire again, the bullets hitting the wall behind which I’m hiding.

“You dumb whore,” someone says behind me in a thick Russian accent, and I feel my blood freeze in my veins. I turn around to see the barrel of a gun staring me in the face.

Shit.

I didn’t seem him coming.

And now...now I’m done for.

“You should be nicer to women, you fucking asshole,” a deep voice growls behind the Russian. Next thing I know, there’s a loud sound and the Russian’s face caves in as a bullet goes through his skull, blood and brains raining everywhere.

Jesus Christ, my shoes are brand new.

Sigh.

“You alright?” Grayson asks me, crouching to my side.

“Yeah,” I tell him, only now realizing that my whole body is trembling. Shit, being this close to death isn’t fun. “Where the hell did you go?”

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