Page 23 of Tangled Vows

“Yes. Where are you?”

“ER. Leonid and Clare are in surgery. He’s lost a lot of blood. She doesn’t seem as bad, but she’s not in good shape, either.”

“Get your asses down to the parking lot.”

“Are you sure? I mean, the doctors—”

“Now, you fool! That’s an order!”

I snort in frustration, still struggling to believe what happened. I’m surrounded by stationary cars, the few overhead lights leaving more than a few dark spots across the lot. All four corners are shrouded in darkness while one of those lights flashes near the exit.

Luckily for Leonid’s men, I don’t have to wait long for them to show up. Malachi is leading a pack of five, all of them jogging towards my spot. I put my hands together and give five sarcastic slaps. In the end, I understand this isn’t enough. Mockery doesn’t work; it doesn’t calm my nerves.

So, once the two guys on Malachi’s flanks are close enough, I flex my arm muscles. A right hook lands on a shaven jaw, sending that idiot reeling back. The guard behind him throws his arms forward to grab him. My left smashes into a bearded face, rocking the owner’s head. This guy is knocked off balance and falls literally on his ass, veins along my forearms bulging.

“Ivan, I’m sorry.

“Shut up!” I growl in Malachi’s face. “Shut the fuck up, you useless prick! Leonid almost got blown to fucking pieces because you’re too fucking incompetent! Damn...” I sigh and cup my forehead, a searing pain spreading through my head. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out.”

Despite my outburst, he remains calm and shrugs his shoulders. “There’s nothing much to say, Ivan. Leonid came over, parked his M3 and picked up Clare. They’d just left the safe house when we heard the blast. We loaded them into our van and brought them here because Leonid had a piece of aluminum stuck in his thigh.”

“Jesus...” I say on an exhale. “What about Clare?”

“She was unconscious when we found her,” he informs. “She came to just before we got here. She complained about pain in her back and her legs.”

“So, none of you thought to check the car when Leonid got to the safe house?” I ask, my voice gaining in volume and nerve.

“With all due respect, this is one of a few cars Leonid owns that we never have to check.” Malachi’s claim adds to my anger, causing me to offer him one mean glare.

“Why?” I grumble, my nostrils flaring.

“Because Leonid says so,” he replies. “I remember the day he bought it. He told me himself that it’s as safe as it can get. No one can open the hood without the key. Also, its ground clearance is so low that only a child would fit under the car.”

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued. Both of Leonid’s claims seemed valid, but, somehow, someone had planted a bomb in that BMW.

“Where’s that ER? Ground floor?” I ask, understanding that this is a conversation I can’t have with him or any of the other four.

“Yes.”

“Move,” I command. “You’d better be telling me the truth, Malachi.”

“I have no reason to lie to you, Ivan,” he says, following behind me. “That car was supposed to be perfectly safe.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” I groan, keeping my gaze on the exit up ahead.

He’s right, although I’m too upset to admit it. Malachi has been a loyal soldier for years. He takes his job seriously, and Leonid considers him more than just an employee. He thinks of him as a friend, someone he can rely on. I don’t think he would leave his boss’s safety to chance.

The smell of medicine is strong in the air on the ground floor. Two doctors are strolling in the opposite direction, a nurse holding a dossier to her chest a few paces behind them. A sign is well down the hallway, suspended from the ceiling.

“Emergency Room”

I sweep the large hall, passing that sign. There are two operating rooms, one in each corner. The blinds on both are shut, much to my annoyance. I turn right and head to the only window in the room, still wondering if Leonid can survive his injuries. A nasty image fills my head, twisting my stomach into knots. It’s none other than what Malachi described—a piece of aluminum, lodged in my brother’s leg. I bang my fist into my palm, trying to shake it off. Just then, I hear the door of one of the operating rooms opening.

I whip my head to the left. A tall, graying man walks into the waiting room, his thick glasses down on the bridge of his nose.

“Kovalev?” He calls out my brother’s name. I jog to get to him, the men quick to follow me.

“Yes, doctor?” I say, my heartbeat escalating. “I’m part of the family—so are these men.”

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