Page 103 of Fierce Pursuit

Plaster exploded around him as he ducked for cover behind the doorway.

Marina screamed again.

She was closer to them than she was to me.

She was still standing in the bedroom doorway, and I was across the living room.

“Marina,” I said, motioning for her to get behind me.

I didn’t think she even heard me.

Her eyes were wide as they went between the new bullet holes in my shoulder and the doorway where the man had shot from.

The gunman who had already hit me popped out from behind the doorframe and fired again, barely missing me.

I returned fire, but my aim was shit.

I couldn’t shoot with my right hand. My shoulder wouldn’t lift as blood soaked through my sweater. I switched to my left hand and fired again, my shots going wide.

Fuck.

I should’ve trained with both my dominant and non-dominant hands.

With soon-to-be dead man number one still firing at me, I was forced to duck for cover, hiding behind the once pristine sofa that now had several bullet holes in it. Another man ran into the room, going straight for Marina. Dead man number two.

I tried to get a shot off, but shooting with my left hand, it went wide again and he grabbed Marina by the throat, whipping her around and using her as a human shield.

Fucking coward.

The soon-to-be dead man number two held his gun to her temple as tears streamed down her face.

“Put down your weapon,” the man yelled in a heavy New York accent.

The fuckers weren’t even Russian.

Solovyov probably had to hire some local thugs that didn’t know shit about Gregor.

I bet his men were too chickenshit to dare to come into Ivanov territory armed. They knew the consequences. Even if the rumors about Gregor going soft had reached them…they would’ve still known it was a suicide mission.

“Not on your fucking life,” I yelled back.

“Drop it or she dies,” he said, pressing the barrel of the gun into her temple until she let out a pained whimper.

Marina didn’t look scared. Tears flowed from her eyes, but there was nothing but determination and fire behind them. She wasn’t scared; she was pissed.

“Do it,” the soon-to be dead man number two yelled again, ducking behind Marina, making a kill shot too risky even if I wasn’t injured.

I dropped my gun on the floor and kicked it away for good measure as I eyed the pistol sitting on the table among the stacks of rubles.

“If you so much as take a fucking step, I’m going to kill the bitch.”

“That would be rather fucking stupid, even for an American,” I said, refusing to let my emotions show, but letting my accent come out thick and heavy.

Emotions got people killed.

I needed to be cold, hard, and logical.

If I could piss off the dead men, maybe I could get the upper hand.

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