Page 22 of Blood Oath Christmas
He steps closer. The firelight catches the gold flecks in his green eyes, the hard lines of his face. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to.
“You’ll be my wife. That’s the only way you survive.”
The words hit like stone. He believes them. Every syllable is absolute in his mind.
My throat tightens, but I force the words out anyway. “No. I won’t marry you.”
For the first time, something flickers across his face. Not surprise. Not anger. Something darker, heavier. His eyes lock on mine, cold and sharp.
“Then you’re dead.”
12
KONSTANTIN
Ishut the door as I leave Ivy’s bedroom, the soft click of the lock echoing in the hallway. My hand stays on the latch a second longer than it should. I hate that about myself—this hesitation. I never hesitate when I have a job to do. Until Ivy. But then, she’s not really a job to me anymore. She’s much more. Shaking my head at such dangerous thoughts, I pull my hand away and nod to the guard as I leave.
I brought Ivy here to save her life and can’t tell her why. I tell her to trust me and give her a guard and bars instead. She looks at me like I’m the enemy because, from where she’s standing, I am. I can live with her hate if it keeps her alive, but it gnaws at me.
My office is the one room where I feel in control. Where no one bothers me unless they have to. Like now. Viktor’s waiting with a folder in his hands, his expression grim. He stands when I come in.
He taps the folder with two fingers. “Three names.”
He’s talking about the hitmen. Apparently, he’s found out who they are.
“Tell me.”
“Stephan Gusev. Motel off the interstate. Drunk enough to miss a moving truck, sober enough to keep his gun where he can reach it. Ukrainian passport, Russian tattoos, Antonov money.” He flips a page. “Bohdan Cherevko. Rents a garage in the old cannery. Puts on a contractor’s vest and watches the courthouse entrance, thinks a neon vest makes him invisible. Cheapskate. He’ll die for three grand if you ask him to.” He flips another page. “Last one—Karpov. First name unknown. Eats breakfast at night. Plays dice in the alley behind the train depot. He’s the kind who survives because he runs before the door opens. Took the hit for the thrill.”
“Stephan first,” I say. “He drinks and then he talks. I don’t want him telling anyone he saw us coming.”
We take the black sedan, just the two of us on the hunt tonight. Snow whispers against the windshield and tires crunch on the mix of old and new snow. We cut across side streets where the plows haven’t reached, then down to the interstate.
The motel where Stephan is staying looks like it’s been losing the same fight for twenty years. The sign buzzes, two letters burned out so it promises “oom” instead of “rooms”. A woman in a parka smokes a cigarette under the awning.
Stephan’s door is the one with a boot print in the middle of it. I knock hard and sharp, just two raps against the thin door. From the other side, I hear a grunt and a curse, then the door opens as far as the security chain allows it.
“Who—” The man doesn’t have time to say anything else.
I ram my shoulder into the door. The chain snaps, and the stale heat of the room rolls out to meet us. Stale beer, gun oil, and sour body odor fill the dirty room. Stephan is barefoot, wearing only a pair of worn jeans. His belly hangs over the waistband, and his hair is matted. He reaches for the gun under the pillow, but before he can reach it, I kick the bed frame and the gun skids out of his reach, clattering under the nightstand.
“Friends of Antonov?” he tries, trying to smile with the one tooth that’s not brown.
“You took his money,” I say. “That doesn’t make us friends.”
He lunges for the nightstand anyway. I let him get close enough to hope and then put him on the carpet with a fist to the throat. He wheezes, gasping for air. Viktor stands at the door, watching impassively.
Stephan grabs at my ankle, as if that will help him somehow. I step on his wrist and feel the small bones shift. He screams through his teeth.
“You won’t be finishing that job for Antonov,” I say, my voice level and calm, as if I’m discussing what I want for dinner.
He tries to say something about a misunderstanding, but I don’t listen. In my experience, men like him will do whatever they can to try and save their miserable lives. They’ll lie, snitch, or make up some story. I don’t have time to find out which kind of ruse Stephan will try. Pulling my gun from my waistband, I aim it at his heart and pull the trigger. No hesitation.
Stephan’s eyes go wide. I stand and watch as the life drains from his eyes. His body slumps to the side as blood blooms across his chest.
Viktor’s voice is like smoke, illusive and steady. “One down.”
Back in the car, the heater throws dry heat against our hands. Viktor drives while I stare out the window.
