Page 12 of Fierce Pursuit

America had such a reputation for its law enforcement, and yet here I was, being arrested by a bunch of sad sacks who wouldn't last a day in Moscow. Who would be skinned alive and hung from bridges for touching a man like me.

Two of them struggled to haul me to my feet, fingers digging into my biceps, dragging me toward the squad cars waiting at the bottom of the metal stairs. Their labored breathing hot against my neck. I gritted my teeth, less from pain and more from sheer irritation.

Then, just because I could, I snapped my head back.

There was a sickening crunch as my skull connected with his nose. Cartilage gave way, soft and yielding. Blood spurted, hot and wet, splattering the back of my neck. The metallic scent filled the air.

The cop howled, clutching his broken nose, crimson seeping between his fingers.

And then—crack.

His baton slammed into the back of my skull. White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes.

For a split second, my vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. A strange ringing filled my ears, drowning out the shouts and curses.

By the time I shook it off, copper tang of blood on my tongue, I was already being shoved into the back of a police car. The door slammed shut, sealing me in a cage of metal and glass, the taste of my own blood a reminder of how close I'd come to losing control.

They took me to a nearby precinct, tossed me into a cell, and left me there.

No processing other than taking my cell phone andwallet. No phone call. Just the cold embrace of concrete and steel.

If Solovyov got to Marina before I did—if these cops cost me her life—I would take theirs as payment. I'd hunt them down one by one, make them suffer in ways that would haunt their nightmares. If they even survived long enough to dream again.

A cop with blonde hair stopped in front of the cell. His eyes widened as he took me in, pupils dilating with recognition, shaking his head like he didn't quite trust what he was seeing.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, a faint accent curling the word. Eastern European. One of ours. "You're?—"

"Yes." I cut him off before he could finish, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You will handle this. Now."

It wasn't a question. And the boy knew it.

His already pale face lost what little color remained, turning the sickly white of old snow. He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the sudden silence, nodding before glancing around and pulling out his phone. I didn't know who he was calling, but I could guess.

The energy in the precinct shifted.

The bored, bureaucratic laziness evaporated, replaced with a crackling, nervous charge. The officer at the desk couldn't stop stealing glances my way, each look more terrified than the last. Others openly gawked, some whispering amongst themselves, hands instinctively moving closer to their weapons. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the message was clear.

They knew they had fucked up.

An officer came to unlock my cage, his gaze glued to the floor, his confidence shattered. The fresh bandage over his nose, stained with spots of blood, told me all I needed to know. He said nothing as he led me to an office, his steps quick, eager to be rid of me.

A man I assumed was the captain sat behind a large wooden desk, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. The second we entered, he shot to his feet, chair screeching against the floor.

"Get those cuffs off him immediately," he barked, panic making his voice crack.

It took the officer a minute to fumble with the keys. His hands trembled so badly he could barely manage the lock, metal scraping against metal.

Yeah. They figured out who I was.

The moment my hands were free, wrists red and chafed, I threw a punch straight into the bastard's already broken nose. The impact jarred my knuckles, still bruised from earlier, but the pain was worth it.

"What is it you Americans say?" I mused as he stumbled back, clutching his face, fresh blood streaming between his fingers. "Play stupid games, win stupid prizes."

The officer whimpered, clutching his bloodied nose as he turned and all but ran from the room. Pathetic. The door slammed behind him, the glass rattling in its frame.

"Mr. Ivanov, please accept my humblest apologies," the captain said, his voice frantic with the need to smooth this over. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. "Normally, my officers are more…informed. We were unaware that you?—"

I lifted a hand, cutting off his useless groveling.

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