Page 58 of Marrying the Mobster
We round a line of shipping containers to find pure chaos. The Armenians are shooting at us from behind stacks of crates and shipping containers, the bursts of their rifles lighting up the night. My guys are mixed in with the Yezhov men, returning fire and trying to take cover from the barrage of bullets.
“Those motherfuckers!” Jovan roars, firing off a flurry of rounds before ducking behind a stack of crates.
I take position behind a huge container that offers the perfect place for me to rest my rifle. Kneeling, I put my eye to the scope and start hunting. I pick off three Armenians within minutes, catching them as they peek their heads out of their hiding places. The cries and gurgles of dying and injured men comes back at me, and the sound of bodies hitting the dock echo like stones.
More of the Armenians come pouring in from every direction—more than I’ve ever seen in one place. Their numbers have swelled in recent months, meaning two families have likely joined forces to take us out. We’re slightly outnumbered, and their blitz attack has us on the defensive.
“Fuck this shit,” I mutter, clutching my rife and rushing through the gap between my hiding place and Jovan’s.
A bullet shatters a crate near me, missing by just a few inches. I don’t breathe until I’m hunkered down next to Jovan, my breath racing and my ears ringing.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing hold of his sleeve. “We’ll go around and take them from behind.”
Jovan follows me, grabbing other men as we go, ducking and darting to avoid the gunfire and keep our heads on. We circle a shipping container to find three Armenians standing over the body of one of my men. I let loose with rapid-burst fire, taking them all out in one sweep.
We pick up speed once we reach a corner of the dockyard they haven’t infiltrated yet, making our way toward the convoy of their parked cars and trucks. Then, we scatter, each of us taking a hiding place behind or on the side of a vehicle and looking for the best vantage point.
I crouch beside a Hummer and let loose while bullets strike the cars around me, some coming close enough to have me on edge.
Between changing magazines, I pause and check my watch, noting that the firefight has been going on for about five minutes. It won’t be long before the cops are alerted, and even with officers on my payroll there will be consequences for this. The boys in blue will come in guns blazing, shooting first and asking questions later. We need to get the hell out of here.
I start creeping forward, trying to get closer. Ducking behind another car, I fire off some shots and then crouch when a flurry of bullets pelts the open doors and slams them closed.
Peering from around the car again, I notice that a group of the Armenians has made their way in the direction of my containers, the valuable cargo they came here to steal. I start edging around cars in their direction, pulling away from my men and going into a shadowy area giving me the perfect vantage point.
I only manage to fire off a few bursts before something slams into the back of my head, throwing me to my knees. I roll to my feet and lift my rifle, only for it to be kicked from my hands. Quickly going for my Glock, I fire at the man coming at me with his own gun raised, landing a perfect shot in the center of his forehead. As he goes down, four others close in around me, and through the haze of my battered head I make out snatches of Armenian conversation.
I hear Jamie screaming at me through the earpiece, then alerting the others to my attack.
But it’s too late. I only manage to shoot one of them in the leg before someone attacks me from behind, delivering another blow that nearly knocks me unconscious. My pistol skitters out of my reach.
My vision is swimming, but I can clearly see the barrel of a gun pointed directly at me. The first shot hits to the left of my sternum, dropping me to my knees and knocking the wind from me. Two more hit me so fast I have to assume they came from separate guns, throwing me onto my back. One of them strikes me in the ribs, and the other tears into the flesh of my shoulder, sending a searing heat down my left arm.
As I lay on the ground struggling to breath and feeling as if a truck just plowed through my chest, I hear the pounding of boots and more gunfire, more screams, more death. My arm is wet and sticky with blood, my shoulder throbbing and sending tongues of fire though my entire body.
“Diego! Diego, stay with me!”
Jovan’s face appears above me, and he presses something over the wound in my shoulder to apply pressure. I can’t even scream even though it hurts like hell. I can hardly breathe, let alone make a sound. Every intake of breath is precious and seem to become scarcer as I lay there listening to the fight rage on around me.
“I’ll fucking kill you if you die, you motherfucker,” Jovan growls, still holding the fabric to my shoulder while tearing the black bandanna from around his neck and using it to tie a tourniquet.
“Too … much … blood,” I rasp.
I’m soaked in it, the hot, coppery liquid drenching my shirt and pooling around me. It’s in my hair, coating my hands, and drowning me in pain.
“Bullshit,” Jovan says, giving me a little shake as my eyelids start to lower. “It’s a scratch. Suck it up. Elena’s waiting for you, man. You can’t fucking die … she’ll strangle me with her bare hands.”
For some reason, the mental image that gives me is hilarious and I start laughing. Then, I bellow as it sends sharp daggers through my torso. My screams turn into coughs, and I start shaking. I’m convulsing like I’m freezing, but in reality I can’t feel a thing.
My hearing goes next, Jovan’s voice sounding warbled as if it’s coming at me through water.
My sight goes last, the darkness on the edge of my vision crowding in, until the world slips through my grasp.
26
Diego
I’m laying in my bed when I come to, propped up with a mountain of pillows. My entire body aches from head to toe, and I can’t distinguish which part of me hurts worse—my head, my shoulder or my chest. I blink and stare down at myself. I’m clean and bandaged up, my left shoulder and biceps wrapped with gauze. My chest and ribs are black and blue, but they might have been riddled with holes if I hadn’t been wearing a vest. I find it laid over the back of a chair, the cavities where I was struck gleaming with silver casings. Someone washed me and dressed me in sweatpants. Even my hair is still damp and smells like shampoo.
