Page 75 of Tattooed Vow

Good. The trap is working. Morozov's men are caught in a crossfire, with limited options for retreat. I move from cover to cover, working toward where I'd last seen Morozov. A figure emerges suddenly from the smoke to my right. It’s one of Morozov's enforcers, his weapon raised. I fire twice, center mass, and he drops.

The air is thick with cordite and dust. Visibility is reduced to a few feet in any direction. Another burst of gunfire to my left, followed by a cry of pain. One of ours or theirs, I can’t tell.

“Status?” I demand into my comm.

“Three of Morozov's men confirmed down,” comes Viktor's terse reply. “Two injured on our side. Morozov and the Butcher moving toward the northwest corner.”

I change direction, moving to intercept. The northwest corner houses an old stairwell that leads to a second-level catwalk. If Morozov reaches it, he'll have a superior position and clear fields of fire.

As I round a massive piece of machinery, I come face to face with the Butcher. For a split second, we both freeze, weapons leveled at each other. His eyes widen in recognition, then narrow in hatred.

“Popov,” he growls, his voice a rumble like distant thunder.

“Butcher,” I acknowledge, finger tensing on the trigger.

He smiles, a grotesque parody of amusement. “The woman isn’t worth all this trouble. Though I admit, I look forward to finding her when this is over.”

Rage flares white-hot at his implied threat to Sandy, but I maintain my focus. “You won't get the chance.”

We fire simultaneously. I feel the wind of his bullet as it passes inches from my face. My shot struck true, catching him in the chest. The Butcher staggers but doesn’t fall. Body armor. I curse internally and adjust my aim.

Before either of us can fire again, a burst of automatic fire tears through the space between us. The Butcher jerks violently as multiple rounds find gaps in his protection—neck, lower abdomen, thigh. He collapses to one knee, blood already soaking through his clothing.

Viktor appears from the smoke, his assault rifle trained on the fallen Russian. “Go!” he shouts to me. “Morozov is heading for the roof. I'll finish this one.”

I hesitate only briefly. The Butcher is Viktor's to deal with. He has personal reasons for wanting the Butcher dead after what happened to his cousins Petrov and Sonya. I nod once and sprint for the stairwell, leaving Viktor to administer justice.

The metal stairs ring under my boots as I climb, taking them two at a time. A bullet sparks off the railing beside me. Someone below covers Morozov's retreat. I press myself against the wall and return fire blindly, more to force them to take cover than to hit them.

“Morozov confirmed on the roof,” comes an update in my ear. “Two men with him. Be advised, they appear to have a contingency plan.”

Not good. I reach the top of the stairs and pause at the door leading to the roof, taking a moment to catch my breath. From below come the sounds of the battle winding down. Fewer gunshots and more shouted commands as my team secured the building.

I ease the door open a crack, peering out onto the roof. The morning mist has thickened, limiting visibility. I can make out three figures by the far edge. Morozov and two guards, one of whom is clearly injured. They appear to be looking down at something over the edge of the building.

Slipping through the door, I move forward in a crouch, using the roof's HVAC equipment as cover. As I draw closer, I can hear Morozov speaking urgently on the phone.

“...two minutes. Not a second longer,” he is saying. “If you don't see us by then, leave.”

An extraction plan. Of course, he'd have one. Morozov hasn't survived this long by being careless. I need to move now before whatever escape he's arranged materializes.

Rising from cover, I call out, “It's over, Morozov!”

All three men whirl, weapons raised. I fired first, dropping the injured guard before he could aim properly. The second guard got off a shot that went wide before my second bullet found his throat. He collapses, clutching at the wound as his life pours between his fingers.

Morozov, however, has used the distraction to dive behind a ventilation unit. “Is this what the great Avilov Bratva has come to?” he taunts from behind cover. “Ambushes and deception instead of facing your enemies directly?”

“Rich coming from amudakwho sent assassins to my home,” I reply, moving laterally to get a better angle. “Apsikhopatwho targets women rather than facing those who can fight back.”

“Your actions have consequences, Popov,” Morozov calls.

I continue moving, tracking his voice. “Those consequences end today.”

A burst of automatic fire forces me back into cover. Morozov is more heavily armed than I'd anticipated. Not just a handgun but a compact submachine gun. The rapid fire pins me down, bullets pinging off metal around me.

“Your entire operation is finished,” I shout over the gunfire. “Even if you escape today, the other families know what you've been doing. Breaking the code and gathering information on them means losing their protection. You'll be hunted by everyone.”

“The other families will fall in line,” Morozov snarls, his voice closer now. He is moving under cover of his own suppressing fire. “Or they will be eliminated.”

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