Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
"Shit," Kincaid curses like he wasn't expecting that. He turns a dark glare on me, which I ignore.
I warned them. They really should have listened.
The two kids on the porch both yell, reaching for their guns.
"Net!" Tarasova shouts, halting them in their tracks. "Otpusti ikh!"
He glances at Milonov and then at me, watching as I tuck the gun in my waistband again. He doesn't say a word, but he lifts his chin, silently letting me know he isn't going to retaliate for what I just did.
Milonov groans, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his abdomen. If he's lucky, he'll die quickly. But I don't think he's going to be lucky because I didn't aim to kill. I aimed to make it hurt like a motherfucker.
"If he's still breathing when the sun rises, I'm coming back for him," I warn Tarasova, already knowing he won't last that long. Tarasova will kill him as soon as we drive away. And when he dies, his blood will be on Tarasova's hands, not mine.
"Suck it up," Kincaid mutters to Milonov. "You're lucky he didn't shoot you in the fucking head. Scratch that," he amends when he sees the scathing look Tarasova shoots in the man's direction. "I think you would have been lucky if he had shot you in the head."
"Andrey, Daniil," Tarasova says to the kids on the porch. "Privedi yego."
The two kids on the porch jog in our direction.
Tarasova looks at me again after giving the order for them to bring Milonov to him. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. Murder glints in his eyes. Milonov isn't going to survive the night.
Tarasova turns and walks back toward his house, confident that Andrey and Daniil will do as ordered.
"Tell your buddy Rick Sanders I'm coming for him next," I mutter to Milonov and then climb in the truck, slamming the door.
Kincaid hops in the front seat, flipping off Andrey and Daniil, who scowl at him.
"So, who the fuck is Rick Sanders?" he asks as Roman pulls away.
I tip my head back against the seat, too goddamn tired to answer him.
"Gregory? Hernandez?" Sanders squints at us through bleary eyes, looking like he's surprised to see us on his doorstep at the break of dawn. "What the fuck are you two doing here?"
I push my way inside, nearly knocking him down in the process. Roman walks in behind me, kicking the door closed. Sanders stumbles back a couple steps, his expression going from patently false confusion to anger and then to outright fear. I ignore him and glance around.
His living room is a mess of empty beer cans. A pizza box sits on the coffee table. The television plays faintly, some workout video he's obviously not watching. His house is nothing more than the mismatched bachelor pad I expected from a guy like him.
"Seriously, what the fuck are you doing here?"
"You know why we're here," I mutter, grabbing him by the arm and twisting it behind his back in a ruthless hold.
He cries out, trying to yank free of my grip, but it's a useless attempt. He's clearly been drinking all night, and I could take him on his best day. I kick him in the side of the knee, listening to the satisfying crunch of cartilage snapping. He hits the floor with a strangled scream.
"I warned you to stay the fuck away from her," I growl, putting more pressure on his arm. His elbow snaps.
"I didn't go near her!" he cries, trying to squirm away from me.
"That's not what Victor told us," Roman says, leaning back against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. The look of disgust on his face makes it clear he's not going to help Sanders anytime soon.
"Milonov is lying, man! I haven't been anywhere near her! I promise."
Roman laughs loudly, not even bothering to tell him he just outed himself as the other man in that car last night. He wouldn't have known who we were talking about if he wasn't involved. Not that I had any doubts or anything. It wasn't hard to figure out he was the one who told them where she was.
It wouldn't surprise me to find out he's the one who shot at us in the parking lot a few weeks ago, either.
"For someone who graduated at the top of his class, you're a dumb son of a bitch." I drop his arm and slam my fist into his face. His nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays across my hand. I fling it off and hit him again. He falls forward, curling into a little ball like that's going to save him. "You're lucky I don't fucking kill you, Sanders."
"Please," he sobs. "Please don't."
"Shut the fuck up," Roman mutters, kicking his hand away when he reaches out toward him in supplication.