Page 11 of Fierce Pursuit

And the cold, horrifying realization thathe was never going to stop.

CHAPTER 4

KOSTYA

Iwas already calculating the fastest way to the next station when someone grabbed me from behind.

Big mistake.

My elbow slammed into his ribs before my brain even processed the threat. The impact reverberated through my arm, a satisfying crunch of bone beneath muscle. Pure instinct, honed by years of violence.

The second I felt his grip loosen, I spun, landing a brutal right hook to his jaw. The crack of knuckles against bone sent a jolt of savage pleasure through my veins.

His head snapped back, eyes rolling white before he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. A marionette with cut strings.

And that was when I noticed the uniform.

A cop.

Could this day get any fucking worse?

Apparently, yes, it could.

Another one came at me, baton already drawn, his face contorted with fury.

At least he had some fight in him.

He swung for my head. Predictable. I lifted my arm, blocking the hit. It still stung like a bitch, pain shooting up to my shoulder, but my wool coat absorbed some of the impact. Before he could wind up again, I grabbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath his hairline, and slammed him into the nearest metal pillar.

The satisfying clang echoed across the platform, vibrating through the concrete beneath our feet. Blood spattered across the graffiti-covered metal, bright crimson against faded tags.

He stumbled, dazed, blinking like he wasn't sure whether to keep fighting or just collapse. Eyes unfocused, pupils dilated with shock. I ended his internal debate by grabbing him by the collar and tossing him onto his unconscious friend.

And then, of course, backup arrived.

Four more officers came charging up the stairs, boots pounding against metal, radios crackling with static and urgent voices. Three of them looked ready to throw down, hands already on their batons, faces flushed with adrenaline. The fourth, the only one with an ounce of intelligence, already had his gun drawn. The black barrel pointed straight at my chest, unwavering.

Finally, someone with a brain.

I raised my hands, more annoyed than concerned. My pulse didn't even quicken, just kept the steady rhythm of controlled fury.

It wasn't that I couldn't take them. I could. But killingcops, especially American ones, meant attention. Attention that would require my cousin Gregor's involvement.

The very thing I was trying to avoid.

One officer knelt beside his unconscious buddies, fingers pressed against throats, checking for pulses. His expression darkened when he found them, relief and rage battling in his eyes. Another kept his gun trained on me, arm rigid, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill in the air.

The remaining two approached cautiously. One fumbling for his handcuffs, metal jingling against his belt, the other holding his hands out as if he were trying to calm a wild animal.

Had I not been trying to avoid Gregor, I would've grabbed the outstretched hand and used the idiot as a human shield. Instead, I let them shove me down onto the filthy platform. My cheek pressed against concrete, gritty with years of dirt and God knew what else.

This suit was ruined. Armani. Custom-tailored. Imported from Italy. Nine thousand euros, and worth every cent.

Now it smelled like piss and stale beer, the fabric grinding against filth that would never come out.

All while Marina was getting further and further away. Again. The thought burned through me like acid, eating away at whatever restraint I had left.

"Yeah, we've got a violent drunk and disorderly," one of the officers muttered into his radio, his voice tight with barely contained rage. "Bringing him in. Assault on an officer. Requesting medical; two down, unconscious but stable."

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