Page 152 of Vendetta Crown

Sharp, staccato pops that don't match his men's weapons.

"What the fuck?!" Semyon screams.

I catch a glimpse of Artyom's tattooed hand signaling from behind a parked car. Relief surges through me like a shot of adrenaline.

That beautiful bastard!

"Boss, we're getting hit from behind!" one of Semyon's men shouts, panic edging his voice.

Semyon's attention splits, his men suddenly trapped between two lines of fire. I seize the moment, diving from my cover to a better position behind an overturned trash can.

"Artyom! Pin them down!" I yell.

"Already on it!" His voice rings out clear as a fucking bell.

Two of Semyon's men break cover, desperate to reposition. I take one down with my second-to-last bullet. Artyom gets the other.

Semyon is screaming at his remaining men, struggling to maintain control as his carefully orchestrated ambush falls apart. I can see the fear creeping into his eyes as the realization dawns.

He's losing.

"It's over, Semyon!" I shout. "You played your hand, and you lost!"

He responds with wild gunfire in my direction, bullets whistling past my head.

"Ruslan!" Artyom calls out. "Four o'clock!"

I spin just in time to see Semyon making a break for his car. No fucking way. Not after everything he's done.

My last bullet. My final chance.

I steady my breathing, tracking his movement through my sights. Time slows as I squeeze the trigger.

The shot cracks through the air. Semyon stumbles mid-stride, clutching his chest as red blooms across his shirt. He collapses against the side of his car, sliding down to the pavement.

His remaining men scatter like rats from a sinking ship.

I sprint toward Semyon, gun still trained on him though it's now empty. His breathing comes in wet, ragged gasps as blood seeps between his fingers.

I walk toward Semyon with Artyom at my side, adrenaline still pumping through my veins. Blood pools beneath Semyon's body, spreading across the pavement in a dark, sticky puddle. His breathing sounds wet, labored.

"Finish it," Artyom mutters, pressing a fresh magazine into my palm.

I slam it home and chamber a round with practiced ease. The weight of the gun feels right, familiar.

After everything Semyon's done, this moment has been a long time coming.

I kick his gun away, sending it skittering across the asphalt. His eyes track me as I level my weapon at his face.

But instead of fear, his eyes glimmer with something else.

Amusement.

His lips stretch into a grotesque smile, teeth stained crimson with his own blood.

Then he starts laughing. A horrible, wet sound that bubbles up from his chest.

"What's so fucking funny?" I demand, pressing the barrel against his forehead.

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