Page 247 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

“And you think I know where this woman is?” I ask, playing my part up until it’s clear I can’t do that any longer.

My fingers twitch towards my rifle, preparing myself for the moment that is quickly approaching.

“Oh, I know you do,” the leader snaps, clicking his tongue again. “Somehow you’ve managed to get your hands on her. Which means either she hired you to protect her, or you’re the cabrón that took her in the first place.”

I smile. “I’m not a fucking hired hand,” I reply in a menacing voice that doesn’t match my facial expression at all. My smile clearly makes him uncomfortable, because I see his eyes flash to his men. “You wanna know who I am?”

He says nothing.

“I’m Artem Kovalyov, don of the Kovalyov Bratva,” I finish. My voice echoes from the mountains enclosing us. Harsh, unyielding.

The voice of a man capable of dealing out death to his enemies.

Silence follows my revelation, as I sense the stench of fear rise from all four men that surround me.

It’s a more flattering reaction than I expected.

They know the name.

They know what it means.

“And the reason I don’t mind sharing my identity with you,” I say calmly, “is because I know none of you will tell a soul.”

I allow three seconds of silence to let my words sink in.

And then I start to move.

66

Artem

I move fast and I move low, so that if someone fires, they’ll hit the air above my head.

I slam my body into the leader first, hitting him hard around the stomach. We fall back into the dirt.

The moment he’s on the ground, I somersault over him, grab his gun in the process, turn it on his men, and shoot twice.

One bullet hits Scarface in the arm. Blood spurts from a struck artery and he screams in agony as he collapses.

But the other bullet narrowly misses Blondie.

I duck behind one of the larger trees, pocket the leader’s pistol, and pull my rifle out to play.

These fuckers may know my name, my legend, my reputation.

But I’m about to show them why it’s all deserved.

I can hear them scrambling frantically from behind the tree, but I don’t want to give them too long to re-group. So I jump out and sprint, still staying low. I fire as I move to the next cover.

One shot strikes Scarface again. He twitches and goes completely still.

The man with yellow teeth has his eyes on me. He shoots three times, but his bullets bury themselves in the trunk of the tree that’s giving me cover.

I fire a few return shots blindly, but none of them find the target.

Growling, I creep backwards into the darkness of the clustered trees to reload.

“Pendejo!” the leader yells, as he finally manages to get to his feet. “Fucking Russian. Where’d he go?”

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