Page 115 of Reaper
One smooth pull.
One bullet leaves the chamber.
A sharp crack, a kick of recoil, a prayer — all send it on its way.
It impacts with Ruslan Volkov at the wrist; bone splinters, skin splits, flesh and muscle part and spray and spatter in a puff of bloody spray. The knife whirls, flying across the room, while his fingers and other bits of his hand arc about the room in a cloud of gore. His thumb lands on Reaper’s chest, pointing upward.
My voice — an echo of the days when I had a badge and a devotion to the law — snaps out of me with utter command. “Don’t you fucking move a muscle or so help me god the next round goes in your head, you motherfucker.”
It’s an old habit. From a time when it mattered whether pieces of shit like Ruslan Volkov were brought before a judge and jury. It’s a weakness now.
What should follow from my lips is a bark — lay flat on the ground with your hands behind your back. I should send him face-down into the lake of Reaper’s blood, maybe to drown, maybe to be arrested, either way to face justice of some kind for the countless crimes he’s done, the worst of which is that he reminded me that the man he’s mutilated still has a hold on my heart, but I don’t get the chance.
Because Ruslan Volkov isn’t bound by those rules, and I shouldn’t have been naïve enough to bind myself to them, either.
Even missing a hand, he propels his gangly, gaunt body with surprising agility to leap to the side before I can pull the trigger. A split second later, his bodyguards have their guns in their hands and raise them to return fire.
I duck.
I run.
Bullets hit the ceiling right above where I was kneeling. Some hit the fluorescent light and send shards of glass and fill the air with the smell of phosphorus. Some hit the ceiling panels and send particles of drywall falling upon me like misshapen snow.
“Kill her,” Ruslan yells in a pointless, obvious expression of fury. Because what else are these motherfuckers going to do? Invite me to brunch?
I flee into the office that I entered through, crouch low into a defensive position, and aim my gun at the staircase leading up here from the floor below. There may be other ways up, there may be elevators, hell, there could even be fucking ladders and walkways, but I’m not the architect who designed this torture pit, I’m just a former law enforcement officer who lost her heart to a criminal and didn’t bother scouting the entire building before jumping in here to save the man’s life.
I hear one set of footsteps coming up the staircase. The other set… has disappeared.
Fuck, there must be another way up.
A rattling at the door to my left draws my attention. The rattle turns to a heavy kick, and the door flies open before I can aim. I scream — not in fear, but in rage — and lunge toward the son of a bitch, anyway. His gun is ready, aimed, there’s a smile on his face as he gloats at me, knowing that he’s got the advantage and with a simple crook of his finger he can paint the walls with my blood.
His head explodes.
Bone sprays, flesh and blood, and he crumples to the ground just as I register the sound of the shot and see a moving shadow — the marine — leap in through the window behind me.
“You didn’t wait for me before you started the fun, Adriana,” he says.
“Thanks, Marine,” I say.
“You do know my name, right?”
“Yes, but there’s no more time to fuck around. We have to save Reaper,” I say over my shoulder, turning and firing several shots at the opening of the staircase and sending those ascending footfalls diving for cover.
“How many are there?”
“Two more at least, plus Volkov. Ruslan's wounded but still mobile. He's the priority target."
"Negative. Getting your boy out alive is the priority."
“I… thank you, Conrad.”
“Less chatting, more doing our damn jobs. Come on, let’s go.”
With a gesture, I send him cutting to the right to look for another way down, and I head to the top of the stairwell. I have to cut through these Russians. I have to get to Reaper. I have to save him.
Several bullets flying up the stairwell cut my progress short, and I drop into a combat position. I count three seconds between shots, then lean out just far enough to return fire. The muzzle flash illuminates a figure pressed against the wall halfway down the stairs. I squeeze off two rounds and hear a grunt, then the heavy thud of a body tumbling down concrete steps.
