Page 107 of Fierce Pursuit

The man holding me moved his grip from my neck to my hair, twisting and pulling just hard enough to hurt. At least his gun was no longer at my temple. No, instead he had it digging into my spine at the small of my back as he shoved me into a service elevator.

Assholes.

I wanted to fight them, but I knew that was pointless.

How could I fight a man with a gun?

I was going to make some kind of move in the hotel room, but Kostya said no. He knew better than I did. If I wasn’t going to be able to get away from them with him in the room, what chance did I have alone?

The service elevator opened to garage parking and instantly the cold air hit my skin.

They pushed me out of the elevator toward a car that sat idling in the garage, waiting for them.

I stared at the car, the cold, sinking feeling in the base of my stomach solidifying into fear at the distinct click of a gun cocking behind me.

I froze, my back straight, a single drop of sweat traveling down my spine, dreading the shot about to be fired, ending my life.

Will it hurt?

Will I feel cold?

How fast will I die?

What would be waiting for me on the other side?

Will Kostya mourn me?

Those questions raced through my head as I closed my eyes.

Two shots rang out, pain stabbing through my ears.

I stood there waiting for the pain of a bullet to register, but the man pushing the gun into my spine and the other one, who had shot Kostya, fell to the ground on either side of me. Dead.

I turned to look behind me, expecting to see Kostya’s angry face as he marched toward me to take me back.

Instead, a man emerged from the shadows; a single tendril of smoke curled from the muzzle of the gun he used to motion for me to get into the car.

I moved while he silently followed.

He opened the back door and tossed in the duffel, then shut the door behind me before melting back into the garage. I considered sliding all the way over to the opposite side and out the other door, but it was already blocked.

A man with a scar running from his temple to the corner of his mouth sat waiting for me. His scar was gnarled and pulled, distorting the side of his face.

I shrank back as an icy realization settled over me.

This was Oleg. I didn’t recognize the name because Veronika had always called him Two-Face, after the Batman villain. He was the other man she’d been sleeping with. A hitman who worked for Solovyov.

Not just any hitman; he was the one you sent when you wanted to deliver a message. Not a clean hit, not aquick death that was honorable, but a tortured one that lasted hours, one that would make any Hollywood serial killer’s stomach turn.

Veronika found his power, the depth of his depravity, intoxicating at first.

I thought she was batshit crazy.

Now, looking into his eyes, one milky and blind, the other hard and cold, I knew crazy was an understatement.

Seducing a man like him was a whole new level of reckless.

“What do you want with me?” I asked, trying to keep my voice strong, steady. The thing about psychopaths was that you never wanted them to know you were afraid.

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