Page 11 of The Contract

It’s going to be fine.

Everything’s going to be fine.

Because even with my wrists still bound, my finger finds the knot?—

wiggling in, working it loose. Until finally, it pries free.

I yank the cover from my head, and for the first time, I see him.

Or rather, his back.

Dark hair. Fitted, black shirt. Expensive slacks. Dressed to the nines… for street brawling.

A beast of a man. The Russian.

His fists rain down on Numbnuts, who’s sprawled on the ground beneath him like butchered meat.

Two relentless fists jackhammering my assailant into pavement with terrifying endurance, blow after blow.

Grunts.

Thuds.

I lose count.

A gurgled beg. “Please. Let me go. I swear, I won’t tell Andre.”

“Tell Andre?”

“Who you are,” the man chokes out, hushed and seething.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then, a throwing star glints in his hand as the Russian drags a path down the pinned man’s cheek.

“Think you can outrun it? Outmaneuver my throw? What happens if you get hit?”

A wheezing, desperate gasp.

“I’ll have”—He thinks hard—pant, pant—“thirty minutes”—pant, sputter—“to get to a hospital…”

A soft tsk of disappointment. A contemplative pause.

“I lied. It’s more like five. Ten tops. But on second thought, you touched what’s mine. So… why wait?”

The star hits his throat so deep, the guttural cry cuts short.

Nothing but wet, sickening sounds.

I swallow a scream and slap both hands slap over my mouth.

The Russian straightens.

His head tilts.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

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