Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
He stumbled, dazed, blinking like he wasn't sure whether to keep fighting or just collapse. Eyes unfocused, pupils dilated with shock. I ended his internal debate by grabbing him by the collar and tossing him onto his unconscious friend.
And then, of course, backup arrived.
Four more officers came charging up the stairs, boots pounding against metal, radios crackling with static and urgent voices. Three of them looked ready to throw down, hands already on their batons, faces flushed with adrenaline. The fourth, the only one with an ounce of intelligence, already had his gun drawn. The black barrel pointed straight at my chest, unwavering.
Finally, someone with a brain.
I raised my hands, more annoyed than concerned. My pulse didn't even quicken, just kept the steady rhythm of controlled fury.
It wasn't that I couldn't take them. I could. But killing cops, especially American ones, meant attention. Attention that would require my cousin Gregor's involvement.
The very thing I was trying to avoid.
One officer knelt beside his unconscious buddies, fingers pressed against throats, checking for pulses. His expression darkened when he found them, relief and rage battling in his eyes. Another kept his gun trained on me, arm rigid, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill in the air.
The remaining two approached cautiously. One fumbling for his handcuffs, metal jingling against his belt, the other holding his hands out as if he were trying to calm a wild animal.
Had I not been trying to avoid Gregor, I would've grabbed the outstretched hand and used the idiot as a human shield. Instead, I let them shove me down onto the filthy platform. My cheek pressed against concrete, gritty with years of dirt and God knew what else.
This suit was ruined. Armani. Custom-tailored. Imported from Italy. Nine thousand euros, and worth every cent.
Now it smelled like piss and stale beer, the fabric grinding against filth that would never come out.
All while Marina was getting further and further away. Again. The thought burned through me like acid, eating away at whatever restraint I had left.
"Yeah, we've got a violent drunk and disorderly," one of the officers muttered into his radio, his voice tight with barely contained rage. "Bringing him in. Assault on an officer. Requesting medical; two down, unconscious but stable."
America had such a reputation for its law enforcement, and yet here I was, being arrested by a bunch of sad sacks who wouldn't last a day in Moscow. Who would be skinned alive and hung from bridges for touching a man like me.
Two of them struggled to haul me to my feet, fingers digging into my biceps, dragging me toward the squad cars waiting at the bottom of the metal stairs. Their labored breathing hot against my neck. I gritted my teeth, less from pain and more from sheer irritation.
Then, just because I could, I snapped my head back.
There was a sickening crunch as my skull connected with his nose. Cartilage gave way, soft and yielding. Blood spurted, hot and wet, splattering the back of my neck. The metallic scent filled the air.
The cop howled, clutching his broken nose, crimson seeping between his fingers.
And then—crack.
His baton slammed into the back of my skull. White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes.
For a split second, my vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. A strange ringing filled my ears, drowning out the shouts and curses.
By the time I shook it off, copper tang of blood on my tongue, I was already being shoved into the back of a police car. The door slammed shut, sealing me in a cage of metal and glass, the taste of my own blood a reminder of how close I'd come to losing control.
They took me to a nearby precinct, tossed me into a cell, and left me there.
No processing other than taking my cell phone and wallet. No phone call. Just the cold embrace of concrete and steel.
If Solovyov got to Marina before I did—if these cops cost me her life—I would take theirs as payment. I'd hunt them down one by one, make them suffer in ways that would haunt their nightmares. If they even survived long enough to dream again.
A cop with blonde hair stopped in front of the cell. His eyes widened as he took me in, pupils dilating with recognition, shaking his head like he didn't quite trust what he was seeing.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, a faint accent curling the word. Eastern European. One of ours. "You're—"
"Yes." I cut him off before he could finish, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You will handle this. Now."
It wasn't a question. And the boy knew it.
His already pale face lost what little color remained, turning the sickly white of old snow. He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the sudden silence, nodding before glancing around and pulling out his phone. I didn't know who he was calling, but I could guess.