Page 33 of Jett

“Jesus Christ.” I take a pack of cigarettes from my cut, put one in my mouth, and pull out my Zippo. The flame dances in the gloomy chamber, highlighting the Russian’s blood caking my hands.

“You want me to kill him, Prez?”

I think seriously about it for a few seconds and shake my head. “No. Just get him out of here before I change my mind.”

***

WE ARRIVE AT THE QUARRYan hour earlier than we have to. Everyone but Raphe, Killer, Country, and Crazy are here. The older two got left behind to protect the women and children on lockdown. The other jackasses were left because they can’t be trusted not to fuck shit up.

Trigger and Kick wait in the van with the dead Russian.

I can’t believe this shit.What the fuck am I supposed to do with a dead hostage?

We sit in the sweltering heat. That body isn’t getting any fresher, so I call to Trigger to turn on the air-conditioning.

Moments later, the Russians show up early. A cavalcade of Rolls-Royces kick up dust in their wake.

Ryzhanov waits for his crew to climb out and aim their guns at us. We all do the same, and then the smug bastard opens the back door of his expensive car.

“Where the fuck is my wife, Ryzhanov?”

“Where is my second?”

I turn and nod at Trigger through the windshield. One of the Russians pulls my wife from the boot of their vehicle, and she struggles in their grasp.

Hang on, Mia.

Even from here I can feel the weight of her hatred for me. I catalogue her body. Her face is a little banged up but there are no limbs or digits missing that I can see. I don’t know if they abused her, but aside from a swollen lip and tear in her shirt, she appears mostly untouched.

Trigger and Kick pull the dead Russian from the van, supporting his body weight with their shoulders underneath his arms. His head lolls, dead weight, and Ryzhanov raises a brow.

“He’s still breathin’,” I shout. “Just unconscious is all.”

“Prove it,” he says through his teeth.

“Come here and you can collect him for yourself.”

Ryzhanov motions with his gun to one of his men. A lanky Russian slowly walks toward us. I glance at Tank. He nods imperceptibly, and I stare at Mia, sliding my gaze from her hard eyes to the ground at her feet before settling again on Ryzhanov.

The Russian crouches to feel for a pulse. Tank kicks dirt in his face and fires three bullets straight into his cranium. I aim at Ryzhanov’s head and fire off several rounds. Mia goes down, and for a half second, I think I’ve hit my wife, but she’s yanked to her feet and shoved in the backseat of Ryzhanov’s Royce. The car takes off, kicking up a cloud of dust.

“Fuck!” I shoot at the tyres, the back windshield, but nothing slows the vehicle.

Ryzhanov’s men fire at our bikes, riddling the metal frames with holes. I take cover behind our van, and the next few minutes are a barrage of gunpowder and bloodshed as we fuck up those who haven’t already fled.

“Fuck!” I unleash the remaining bullets from my clip, squeezing the trigger so tight my fingers cramp. “They’ve got my fucking wife!”

With our bikes peppered with bullet holes and our tyres blown out, we have no way to get to her. No way to know where they’re taking her, and nothing to do but wait for the call.

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