Page 135 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“Bitch!” Walsh bellows.

He jerks the car over onto the shoulder of the road. His face looks all different now, like a mask has been shed. It reveals this contorted, raging lunatic. This is who he really is.

Walsh leans in uncomfortably close as he loops my chain tighter around the car seat so the only thing I can move is my head. Struggling does a grand total of nothing. His sweat and mint Listerine stench is so potent I almost gag. The chain snaked tight across my throat doesn’t help matters much.

Walsh smirks as he returns to his seat. “There, that’s better.”

He slams his foot so hard on the gas that I almost don’t hear a distant sound over the roar of the Mercedes engine coming alive.

But I do hear it. It sounds like salvation.

It’s the beep of a horn. I twist my head as much as I can.

Gavril.

Gavril Vaknin, my husband, my love, my disappointment, and now—maybe—my saving grace. Looking like an avenging angel as he rides hunched over on a red, black, and chrome motorcycle, ten or so feet behind us.

He’s gaining fast, but Walsh is stepping on the gas pedal too as he takes out a gun.

“No!” I cry. I throw myself against my chains with everything I have, over and over again. It does nothing. Or almost nothing. Almost imperceptibly, the movement shifts them, little by little.

Already, Gavril’s even closer, but Walsh is turning to shoot. Now’s my chance: with the tiny bit of freedom I’ve worked loose, I throw myself as hard and fast and wild as I can into my chains.

This time, they give. I collide with an oomph against Walsh’s chest.

The contact takes him by surprise. The car veers off the left, over the other lane, all the way into the ditch. The dashboard rushes up to meet me violently.

Boom.

I see stars, blackness. My face hurts.

The next few minutes pass by interspliced with moments of blackness, like somebody snipped out pieces of the film reel of my reality.

Darkness, then …

Beside me, Walsh is swearing, climbing out of the car.

“Gavril …” I groan.

All I see, though, is Walsh’s fisted hands. No gun. Good. He lost it somewhere, I would guess. I don’t know where.

Back to black.

Then …

Through the window, I can see Richard and Gavril squaring up on the side of the road. Only Gavril isn’t … he doesn’t look good. Looks bloodied, bruised, on the verge of collapse.

And my head … fucking agony, my head … My whole body, more like. I am one useless blur.

Pay attention, Joy.

I strain to focus on the fight: Richard’s fist connecting with Gavril’s jaw.

No.

Richard’s other fist slamming into Gavril’s chin.

NO!

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