Page 82 of Cinderella and the Daddy
23
LUKA
The bullet tears through my left shoulder like molten steel, the impact spinning me into the side of the SUV hard enough to dent the panel. My vision fractures—white stars exploding across black—and for one terrifying second, my arm goes completely dead.
Nerve damage? Shattered bone? No time to assess.
Through the haze of shock, I see them dragging her toward the van. Her body is limp, defenseless. The taser has left her as helpless as a ragdoll.
"Boss!" Mark shouts, already returning fire, but I'm moving on instinct now. My left arm hangs useless, blood running in hot rivers down to my fingertips, but my right hand finds the door handle.
I wedge myself behind the wheel, grateful it's an automatic. Shifting gears would be impossible. Blood makes the steering wheel slippery, and I can feel myself listing left, my body trying to protect the damaged shoulder.
"You're hit!" Mark dives into the passenger seat. "Let me?—"
"Drive and I'll kill you myself," I snarl, already throwing the SUV into gear with my good hand. The movement sends lightning through my shoulder, and I taste copper as I bite through my lip to keep from screaming.
The van is already several blocks ahead, weaving through traffic with reckless abandon. They know where they're going. This was planned and orchestrated down to the last detail. The thought makes my blood run cold.
My shoulder throbs with each heartbeat, but I push the pain aside. Pain is nothing. Pain is weakness. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting to Cindy before they?—
I can't finish that thought. Won't let myself imagine what they might do to her.
"There!" Mark points through the windshield. "They're turning east toward the industrial district."
The warehouse district. Of course. Miles of abandoned buildings, perfect for the kind of work that requires privacy and soundproofing.
The van disappears around a corner. A truck cuts us off. I curse and slap the dashboard. “Go!”
By the time we get around, the van is gone.
“FUCK!” The word tears from my throat.
Twenty minutes of hunting through identical warehouses, and my vision is starting to tunnel. The blood loss is catching up. Mark's been on the phone, coordinating with our other units, throwing out a net across the industrial district.
"Sector 7 is clear," Viktor's voice crackles through the speaker. "Moving to—wait. Black van spotted, warehouse district, Building 47B."
My heart slams against my ribs. "How sure?"
"Plates match the partials you gave us. Two men posted outside, armed."
I spin the wheel one-handed, tires screaming as we change direction. The movement jars my shoulder, and for a moment, the world grays out. When it swims back into focus, Mark has a hand on the wheel, helping me stay on the road.
"Boss, you need?—"
"I need to get to her." Blood has soaked through my shirt and my jacket, pooling in the leather seat. I can feel myself getting cold, that bone-deep chill that comes with significant blood loss. "How far?"
"Three minutes."
Three minutes. I can last three minutes. I have to.
Several of my men, including Grigori and Viktor, have joined us.
The shoulder wound has stopped bleeding, more or less, but my left arm is stiff and slow. I'll have to compensate.
I climb into the back of the SUV and pull the bag filled with guns and ammunition. I quickly stick two clips in my pocket and grab another Glock.
"Boss, you're hurt. Maybe you should?—"
