Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
They have to.
The man shrugs. “As you wish.”
The expert or whatever the hell he is doesn’t budge. He doesn’t come for me. Which is good, as Dimitrov is back on his feet.
Spinning, I turn sideways so I have both men in my sight as I assess the situation. Dimitrov plunges his injured hand into the ice bucket, probably to stop the bleeding and dull the pain somewhat. Then he grabs the bottle of Dom Pérignon in his good hand. Bringing the bottle down hard, he smashes it on the edge of the table. Champagne boils over the broken shards and spills onto the carpet.
I reach behind me for the cord of the lamp on the nightstand, twisting it once around my wrist as I taunt, “Now that’s a waste of good champagne.”
Holding the broken bottle like a knife in front of him, Dimitrov charges. I jerk up my wrist, pulling the plug from the socket. The cord serves as a lasso and the lamp as a heavy weapon. I swirl the lamp through the air once before lancing it at Dimitrov.
The metal stand hits him on the wrist, and the bulb explodes, paper-thin fragments of glass raining down on the carpet. They crunch under his shoes as he hops around on them, dropping the broken bottle and shaking his wrist with an ugly curse.
“One for Mink,” the mousy man says. “Zero for Casmir.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dimitrov shouts, baring his teeth as if he wants to rip me apart with his canines.
I lash out again, this time hitting him on the side of his head with the lamp.
Now he’s a wounded, fuming bull. His fury takes over, and he no longer fights cleverly. He acts on angry instinct. Sadly predictable. When he charges, his head bent to hit me in the stomach with the full force of his body, I whack him on the back of the neck with the wrought-iron lamp base. The blow is hard enough to make his legs cave. The moment his knees hit the carpet, I tear the cord from the lamp, wind it around his neck, and twist.
He makes a nasty gurgling sound, frantically reaching for my ankles, but I’m already darting around him and jumping onto his back. He swats at me uselessly. His arms don’t reach far or effectively behind his back. He goes for my hair, but I duck back easily enough, having predicted the move. Realizing he’s not going to pry me off with his hands, he thrashes like a madman, but I’m light and hold on without much effort. Finally, he gives up and tries to wiggle his fingers under the cord. I twist three more times, enough for the cord to cut into the thick flesh of his neck.
The shooting continues, but I force myself not to think about it. I fight Dimitrov with all my might while keeping one eye on the mousy man. The strange little man is still leaning motionless on the wall like some weird sociopath.
“Admit it, Casmir,” the man says. “You’re getting beaten by a girl.”
Dimitrov slams his bloody hand on the carpet. He twists his head and lifts his eyes to the man with a plea for help. The man doesn’t move.
What’s up with the mousy man’s strange attitude? I don’t know what his stand is, but I better finish Dimitrov off quickly so I can deal with him.
Unfortunately, Dimitrov is a fighter. The bastard refuses to give up. With an inhuman burst of strength, he rolls onto his side and on top of me. I end up flat on my back, trapped under his body with him facing the ceiling. Before I can ward off the blow, he plants an elbow in my stomach.
The punch takes my breath. Wheezing, I fight for air. My grip on the cord slackens. In a wink, Dimitrov is on his feet, ripping the cord from my hand and cutting my palm with the force. The same cord I used to strangle Dimitrov is wound around my neck. I kick and get in a few punches of my own, but Dimitrov is fueled by his anger. He half-drags, half-carries me to the bed, hauling me up onto the mattress.
Pop! Pop!
The fighting next door escalates. I imagine Yan and Ilya taking shelter behind furniture and wrecking the suite as I struggle for my life. Maybe the guards are keeping them away from the door on Dimitrov’s order. Maybe Dimitrov told them my life was his. It makes sense. A man like Dimitrov won’t allow anyone else to kill a traitor with whom he has a personal vendetta. And I did deceive him in the most humiliating way, not only using his own lust as a weapon against him, but also making him look like a fool.
My vision turns hazy, but I refuse to give up.