Page 203 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

“Shit.” I lunge for my gun in the glove compartment. “Not an accident.”

I give Arslan my location and then hang up the phone without another word. I need to be fully present if I’m going to get out of the next few minutes alive.

I kick at the door with all my strength. It takes two attempts, but the metal finally creaks open. I slide out and drop to a crouch behind the ruined vehicles.

More violent cracks echo through the air. I can’t see who's shooting, but judging by the frequency of shots, it’s at least two people. Maybe three. Maybe more.

I reach into the hidden compartment under the driver’s seat and pull out my submachine gun. Then I take a deep breath to steady myself and pivot around to take aim over the hood.

There are four men in black converging on me, but I can see the insignia on their chests. Three of them are Greek, but the fourth has the Battiato crest over his heart.

Xena warned me.Prepare for war.

I take aim and fire. One man drops. The other three find cover.

But they have the advantage and the momentum and I’m pinned into this shitty position. A sitting fucking duck.

I’m weighing my scant options when I hear the familiar rumble of Arslan’s motorcycle. My best friend roars onto the scene from the left, already firing at the Battiato soldier ducked behind the crunched remains of the truck that demolished me.

Two versus two. That’s better.

He brings the motorcycle to a screeching stop near the curb and then dives off, crawling over to the cover of the two cars stacked in front of me.

“You’re lucky they didn’t blow you right off that fucking bike. You should be in an armored car.”

“Look what good it did you,” he says, gesturing to the scrap heap that used to be my favorite ride.

We take turns shooting over the hood, keeping the remaining two men at bay. But after a few minutes of trading useless fire, I’m starting to get antsy.

“Why aren’t they advancing?” I growl. “What’s the point of this attack if they aren’t going to come in for the kill?”

“They’re cowards?” Arslan suggests.

“Yes, but that’s not it. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Almost as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I hear more gunfire. But this time, it’s coming from behind us.

I hear something else, too—the wetthunkof a bullet meeting flesh.

Then Arslan groans.

I spin around and immediately spot another Battiato soldier advancing on foot down the sidewalk, a gun in his hand. I fire and catch him in the stomach. He dives behind a concrete half wall, and I reach for Arslan’s shirtsleeve.

“Get up, man,” I say. It’s more of a plea than an actual order. “Come on.”

Arslan’s only answer is a bloody cough. That’s all I need to know.

If my best friend could shoot off at the mouth with some stupid comeback, he would. I have to get him out of here.

I shift my legs so I’m standing over Arslan, and then move on a continual pivot, firing anytime I see movement. I try to ignore the warm, sticky puddle gathering under my feet. The nasty, rasping breaths coming from Arslan’s chest.

I’m going to get us both out of here. And then we’re going to find Belle and Elise.

I’m going to be a father, goddammit.

“Don’t move,” a voice behind me says.

I curse under my breath.

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