Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
We formed a tight phalanx around Washington as we silently stepped into the luxury apartment’s airy entry. To the left was a wide archway, and in front of us was a long hallway. We were completely exposed—all anyone had to do was walk out of any of the doors I could see or come from the left. It was a nightmare.
“Which way?” Crouse asked in a harsh undertone.
“This goes to the bedrooms,” Washington whispered, pointing down the length of the corridor. “Rasha is at the very last one there, with the double doors facing us.”
“Okay,” I said, shoving him behind me.
“That,” he said, pointing to the large square archway, “leads to the living room and the kitchen. It’s all open concept. It’s a really nice place.”
Bodhi groaned, because really, were we touring real estate properties or saving his girlfriend? I got it, though; everyone had a different reaction to something like this. Some people freaked out and fell apart, some got a bit too hyped up on adrenaline, while others, like Washington, were so used to crap like this in their lives, they went with the flow. I was glad he wasn’t panicking, but I could do with a bit more fear from him, like downstairs.
When I felt Bodhi’s hand on my shoulder, which told me our witness was now behind him and that I was clear to move forward, of course that was when Rasha opened the door to her bedroom and saw Washington.
“Terry,” she gasped, and rushed down the hall toward us, carrying a fluffy Siamese cat in her arms.
Washington slipped around us and ran toward her.
In my periphery, I saw sudden movement as a shirtless guy walked out into the hall. Tattoos sprawled across his chest and arms, each marking a chapter of his life within the Bratva.
“What the fuck?” he roared, reaching for his Heckler & Koch MP5K machine gun. “Burian, the fuckin’ punk-ass bitch is screwin’ you over!”
Okay, switching from quiet surgical strike to loud. In my head, I’d known better. No way was this op going to play otherwise.
“Fuck,” Bodhi yelled, flying forward to reach Washington and Rasha.
I arched my Glock up before the muzzle of his H&K could rise to the threat position and emptied three rounds in a quick burst at the henchman. Two bullets struck the man in the upper chest, punching a couple of holes in his lungs. The third round chinned him as he fell away, the lower half of his face exploding in a spray of blood and bone fragments that painted the neutral-toned wallpaper in a bright-red mush.
“Everyone’s coming now,” Crouse stated, and I checked to see that my partner had both Washington and Rasha pressed to the wall behind him. It wasn’t great. If there was anyone in the rooms to the right or across from him, he’d be killed, and so would they.
He had to get out with them.
Crouse and his agents had raised their weapons as soon as the first round had been fired, an instinctive reaction drilled into them over years of training. Weapons trained on the dead body, fingers lightly resting on the triggers. Ready to neutralize any more threats.
There was a chorus of panicked Russian shouts.
I holstered my Glock and hastily relieved the dead muscle of his submachine gun. I slung the weapon sideways while I rifled through his pockets and took out a spare thirty-round magazine, tucking it into the waistband of my jeans. My Glock was a highly effective tool, but the MP5K in close quarters was the ultimate weapon.
“We get pinned down here, we’ll get blown to shit!” Crouse shouted, pulling a twenty-four-round magazine from his waistband and slamming it into the mag well of his Glock 19.
Two-handed, he fired twice at the first goon coming into the hall and struck him in the head. He went down hard. Crouse then led his men through the archway that I could now see into. Ortega let go half a dozen rounds toward another of Petrov’s thugs, drilling him in the gut.
“You gotta move your witness,” Crouse roared back at me.
He was right; the hallway was a kill box. I spun round to Bodhi, my muscles bunched tight with tension. “Evacuation protocol!”
His face was a mask of agony at the idea, but Bodhi knew the drill—witness first. Always.
His mouth tightened. “Going.” From the breast pocket of his jacket, he pulled his earpiece that connected us to Ian Doyle back at the office, shoved it into his ear, and shouted. I imagined the chaos there getting his call. There would be hell to pay, but SOG would be on the way. I looked at my watch—Wes Ching was punctual to a fault. From our office downtown, it would be ten minutes with lights and sirens. All we had to do now was live.