Page 138 of Bratva Bidder
In moments, the lot is quiet again, our attackers scattered or fallen. Konstantin stands beside me, breathing heavily, eyesbright with fury and pride. He checks me swiftly, hands brushing my shoulders, making sure I’m unharmed.
“We’re clear,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.
I nod shakily, blood roaring in my ears. “We need to get Levin.”
But before we can move more than a few steps, gunfire slices the air around us, bullets ringing thunderously off the pavement, forcing us into a crouch behind a crumbling brick wall. My pulse quickens, adrenaline burning through my veins as I grip the gun tighter, eyes scanning rapidly for our attackers.
“Stay low,” Konstantin growls, already returning fire, his movements precise and lethal. I hear a strangled cry somewhere in the smoke-filled darkness, the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground hard.
I steady my breathing and look toward our path to Levin, but it’s quickly blocked by two of Dmitry’s men—bulky shapes emerging from the haze, faces twisted in determination. I don’t hesitate. Years of my uncle’s brutal training surge forward like muscle memory, erasing doubt and fear. Before the first attacker can fully lift his weapon, I lunge forward, aiming low, sweeping my leg into his knee with swift, brutal efficiency. He buckles with a grunt, dropping the gun as he falls. I catch it midair, spin, and drive the grip into his temple, knocking him unconscious.
The second man turns, startled, bringing his gun up in reaction—but I’m already moving, too close for him to shoot effectively. My elbow crashes hard into his throat, cutting off his breath as my knee connects with his gut. He doubles over, choking, and I finish with a swift kick to the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the concrete.
I glance up to find Konstantin watching me, eyes wide with surprise and fierce approval.
“Remind me never to piss you off,” he murmurs roughly, a faint smirk on his lips.
“You’d be wise to remember that,” I reply, a small grin tugging briefly at the corner of my mouth before another burst of gunfire forces us back into cover.
We pivot swiftly, moving as one, shoulder to shoulder, covering each other’s blind spots instinctively. The sound of approaching footsteps echoes ominously around us—too many and too close.
“They’re closing in,” Konstantin growls under his breath, reloading quickly. “We’re surrounded.”
There are four that I can see, maybe even more. Two of them gun for us. One of them heads for Konstantin. The second closes in, gun raised, but I surge forward and sweep his legs from beneath him with a swift, low kick. He hits the concrete hard, head snapping back with a sickening crack. Breath tight, adrenaline surging, I spin to face the third man.
He hesitates, just long enough for me to close distance. He swings wildly, but I’m faster. I catch his wrist, twisting sharply until his gun clatters to the floor. He struggles, snarling as I drive my knee upward into his gut, forcing air from his lungs in a ragged gasp. But he recovers quickly—too quickly—reaching into his waistband for a blade, silver flashing coldly in his grip.
My pulse spikes. I dodge swiftly to the side, narrowly avoiding the first brutal slash. My fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head back, blood spraying from his lip. He staggers but recovers, eyes wild with fury and desperation.
“Don’t,” I warn him, raising my gun again, aiming it squarely at his chest, finger tightening slightly on the trigger. “Stay down.”
But he lunges once more, ignoring my warning, blade slicing forward. Reflexively, I sidestep, grabbing his arm, spinning him around and wrenching his wrist so violently that he cries out in agony, the knife clattering uselessly across the concrete.
He falls to his knees, breathing ragged, defeated, eyes finally meeting mine—and something inside me hesitates. I see myself reflected in his face, the sudden awareness of his mortality, the vulnerability beneath the violence. My finger freezes, muscles locked in uncertainty. I’ve hurt people, yes—fought, survived, wounded—but killing outright, without mercy? Something stalls in me, shivering, unsteady.
I pause just a fraction too long. He reaches for another weapon at his belt—this time a pistol. Before I can react, Konstantin appears from nowhere, a brutal shadow looming behind him. He doesn’t hesitate. His gunshot rings in my ears as he aims and shoots, and the man collapses instantly, a dull thud echoing as blood spreads beneath him.
My hands shake. I stare at the body—at what almost happened, at what did happen. My breathing is erratic, mind swimming with shock.
Konstantin turns to me, eyes blazing fiercely with adrenaline and protective anger, but also concern. “Nadya,” he says urgently, gripping my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I blink hard, forcing myself to steady. I nod quickly, swallowing past the bile rising in my throat. “Yes—I’m fine.”
He studies my face, not quite convinced, but there’s no time. More footsteps approach rapidly, echoing across the cavernous warehouse.
We duck behind an overturned metal rack, the echo of gunfire rattling the walls. Dust rains down from the ceiling with every shot that hits too close. My ears are ringing, my chest tight from the smoke and adrenaline.
“Where’s Levin?” I shout over the chaos.
Konstantin nods toward a row of stacked crates. “Last I saw, he was crouched behind those.”
Another burst of gunfire forces us down. When it pauses, we spring forward, weaving between shadows, dodging debris and broken crates. My heart pounds, my muscles burning, but I keep going. He’s just a civilian, I remind myself. He didn’t ask for this.
We find him huddled behind a pallet of chemical drums, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking slightly. His face is pale and shiny with sweat, and his lips are trembling.
“Levin,” I say, crouching down beside him. “It’s Nadya. We need to move.”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps muttering something under his breath—numbers, maybe. A coping mechanism.
