Page 69 of The Bratva's Auctioned Bride
“Shut up, moron,” Diomid grins.
He winks at me. “Whenever you’re ready, princess,” he says.
I nod and grin back at him. “Later, losers,” I say, trying to sound cool even though I’m terrified. I pick up the small drinks tray, ready to collect empty glasses as I sneak around the party area. Beneath the tray and inside my apron are four smoke bombs.
Again, it surprises me how easily one can access the venue. The same red lights and thick, smoky air assault mysenses as I step out of the passageway and through the swinging door.
Keeping to the side, I start gathering empty glasses and discarded beer bottles, stacking them on the tray, and keeping my head down as I move from one location to the next.
One bomb planted. My heart races, my skin hot and clammy.
Even though my earpiece is silent, it’s nice to know he’s there, listening.
I move toward the bar, my eyes averted, but taking in everything. I unload the empty glasses in the crates behind the bar, then move along the bar, wiping its surface with a cloth from my apron. While I’m doing this, I stick a bomb beneath the lip of the bar, then, as with the first one, I press a small button on the side of the device, and a green light flashes once to indicate it is now synced with the other bombs and has joined the timed countdown. Ten minutes before they go off. And I need to be out of here in eight minutes.
Keep moving, Angelika. You’re almost done. Two down. Two to go.
When I turn around to hurry to the next location, I walk right into none other than Bardil Popov.
My stomach drops into my feet, and my head spins with fear so thick my vision goes entirely black for a second. His face distorts into a disgusted sneer as he pulls himself back, horrified that he came into such close contact with a cleaner.
“Watch where you’re going, girl,” he snaps, looking right at me, but notseeingme.
“Sorry, sir,” I mutter quickly, dropping my gaze.
“Someone knocked a drink over near the stage. Go and clean it up,” he snarls, pushing me. I’m so grateful that he didn’t recognize me that I have to press my lips together to force myself not to smile. The disguise is perfect. And this asshole is letting his enemy move around right under his nose.
“Yes, sir, right away,” I say quickly, then turn away from him and hurry toward the stage. I was going to plant the stage bomb last, on my way out, because it’s the closest to the exit, but I’ll improvise and plant it now while I clean up whatever mess has been made. It’s a good cover.
After this, I only have one more, located in the far corner near the guest entrance. The entrance is most heavily guarded, and that’s not where I want to be at all.
Kneeling in front of the stage with a rag in my hand, I mop up the sticky mess on the floor while I reach across and press the putty-coated bomb onto the front wall of the stage, up high near the lip where, hopefully, no one will notice it.
Glancing up at the crowd standing over me, I don’t think any of these guys notice anything except for their own overgrown egos.
I press the small red button on the side of the bomb. The green light blinks once. Armed. Counting down. One more bomb to go, and then my task will be a complete success.
Excitement stirs through me as I hurry to the last location near the door.
This is probably the most dangerous place for me to be. It’s brighter here, the guards are on high alert, and the people arriving aren’t already engrossed in distractions and conversations, and drink.
Sticking close to the wall again, I move as close as I can to the entrance and pick a spot that looks good. Then, I press the bomb into a corner by dropping it carefully onto the floor and nudging it forward with my foot. Using the toe of my sneaker, I press the button on the side.Done.
My stomach fills with butterflies.
“Four birds,” I say into the small microphone pinned to my collar.
“Get out,” Diomid says. “You cut it close. You’ve only got a minute and a half before they go off.”
“Shit, ok, I’m on my way,” I blurt out, probably too loud, but lucky no one seems to notice.
And I’m not even near the stage that I planned to be. I’m too far from my exit point. This is not good.
In front of me, a man yells and shoves another man.
“What the fuck did you call me?” he snarls.
“Trash. Because that’s what you are. You and your family. You don’t belong in a place like this, you don’t deserve to be ranked with us,” the first man spits.
