Page 56 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

Ludmil is about to rise, but I stop him. “Wait.”

He freezes, hearing it too: the slight, yet unmistakable tread of bootsteps.

My jaw sets. I throw a look behind us to confirm: the alleyway’s a dead-end.

Pity.

Five we could do, fifteen, even. Maybe even twenty on a good day. But thirty or anything like the gun-raised mass charging this way?

It would take a fucking Howitzer to clear that many.

Ludmil and I exchange a grim look. “Guess it’s time to make it rain,” he says.

“Let’s crack some Skulls,” I rasp.

Our hands flash out again, our bullets fly. And the whole first row of Skull Kings charging forward falls.

Four down. Twenty-something to go.

Weirdly, these ones don’t seem to be shooting to kill. Even as we clear off another two, their shots all whizz by our sides, to keep us in place behind the garbage can.

By the time they draw nearer to us, it hits me: they really don’t want to kill us. For now.

What the fuck is going on?

I tuck my gun in the back of my pants and stand slowly, hands raised. Even I know better than to shoot right now. A meaningless death is not what I have in mind for the ending to my story. It’s not over until it’s over.

But something here is not adding up.

“Don’t move,” snaps their leader of the hour, some guy with spiky hair and a droopy nose.

“Who sent you?” I ask as I take to my feet.

“Don’t talk,” he hisses, punching me in the side of the head. Three other bikers grab me, taking away my gun.

I look in his eyes as the three struggle to keep me still, and repeat, “Who. Sent. You?”

Another punch. I taste the copper tang of blood. The pain is splitting, but they still don’t understand that I was born in pain. Raised in it. I revel in it.

I do not fear these weak motherfuckers.

“Borot’sya!” someone yells from the mouth of the alley, and I smile.

That’s my men. Just in time.

What happens next is fast and easy. Skull Kings fall under my Bratva comrades like the wave of garbage they are, until there are only a few left around me and Ludmil. Of course they try to run. Of course they just get shot instead.

Until there’s only one Skull King left and my gun is back in my hand where it belongs.

I knock him to his knees. “Who did this?” I ask him.

He’s a shivering wreck, like they hand-picked him up from some punk show—he’s got enough weirdly placed rings and ambitious tattoos to get himself on the cover of a rock magazine.

“I … don’t …”

I cock the gun and press the tip of it into the part of the throat where it fits nicely. “Tell me.”

His jaw sets—he’s decided to play the brave hero part. “I don’t know.”

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