Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
As we leave the apartment, Callahan swears under his breath, then touches my arm lightly, directing my attention across the street. A black sedan is parked there that wasn’t present when we arrived. Two men sit in the front, faces obscured but postures unmistakably alert.
“We’ve got company,” he murmurs as we descend the stairs.
My heart sinks. Isn’t anywhere safe now? “Who this time?”
“Most likely Cohen’s goons.” His hand rests at the small of my back, guiding me toward our car. “Walk normally. Let’s not tip them off that we’ve spotted them.”
We reach Callahan’s Oldsmobile and climb in, his movements deliberately unhurried as he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. In the side mirror, I see the sedan start up and follow at a discreet distance.
“They’re not even trying to be subtle,” I observe.
“They’re not trying to hide—they’re trying to intimidate.” Callahan makes a right turn onto Wilshire Boulevard, the sedan maintaining its position three car lengths back. “Or they’re herding us.”
“Toward what?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He makes another turn, this time without signaling, hoping to lose them. The sedan follows smoothly, gaining ground.
I reach over, my hand finding his on the gearshift. His skin is warm against mine, the connection grounding despite the tension building in the car. “What’s the plan?”
“Find somewhere public, but not too public. Confront them before they can choose the battleground.” He squeezes my hand briefly before returning his full attention to the road. “You up for a fight, kitten?”
A small smile finds its way to my lips despite everything. “You know I can scratch.”
Callahan drives toward a semi-industrial area where warehouses and small factories stand adjacent to empty lots. The streets are deserted, most workers having headed home. He pulls into the parking lot of an abandoned canning factory, the sedan following as expected.
As we exit our car, the sedan stops about thirty feet away. Two men emerge, then a third from the back seat.
“I’ll take the lead,” Callahan murmurs, positioning himself slightly ahead of me.
“We face them together,” I counter, stepping up beside him. This isn’t his fight alone—it’s ours.
One of the men calls out, “Callahan! Mr. Cohen wants a word with you and the broad.”
“Tell Cohen to make an appointment,” Callahan calls back, his voice steady.
I assess our opponents—two standard-issue thugs flanking a third man who immediately sets off warning bells in my mind. He’s taller than the others, leaner, with a fluid grace to his movements that speaks of predatory confidence. Something about him seems…off.
The third man steps forward. “Ms. Reid,” he says, his voice carrying a trace of accent. “We’ve never met formally. I’m Konstantin. Mr. Cohen has sent me specifically to escort you.”
“Lucky me,” I reply, studying him carefully. There’s something familiar about him, though I’m certain we’ve never met. And despite my enhanced senses, I can’t detect anything vampiric about him. Either he’s not a vampire or he has the same magic as the Ivanov gals.
“We’re not going anywhere with you,” Callahan states flatly.
Konstantin smiles, the expression never reaching his strange purple-gray eyes. “Oh. I think you will.”
He moves with sudden, blinding speed—faster than any human should be able to move. His fist connects with Callahan’s jaw, sending him staggering backward.
Vampire!
My instincts scream it even as my eyes deny the evidence. The man moves too quickly, strikes too hard to be human, but maintains a careful facade that would fool most observers.
The other two goons turn on me. Standard muscle, these two—humans working for Cohen who have no idea what their colleague truly is. I reach for the first one, pushing my will against his mind.
“Stop,” I command, letting my compulsion flow.
His eyes glaze over momentarily, his advance halting mid-step. The second man doesn’t give me time to work the same trick, charging forward with a bellow.
I sidestep his rush, using his momentum against him. My foot connects with the back of his knee as he passes, sending him crashing to the pavement. Before he can recover, I deliver a precise strike to his temple—enough force to knock him unconscious without causing permanent damage.
The first goon shakes off my compulsion faster than I expected, pulling a switchblade from his pocket. The steel glints in the fading light as he slashes toward my midsection.
I dance backward, avoiding the blade by inches. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Callahan still grappling Konstantin, his movements controlled despite the chaos surrounding us, while the thug I knocked out springs back to life, running at him.
I turn to see the knife-wielder lunging again. This time, I grab his wrist, twisting until the weapon clatters to the ground. He howls in pain as something snaps in his arm. I follow with a decisive blow to his sternum that knocks the wind from his lungs, then a sweeping kick that takes his legs out from under him. His head strikes the pavement with a dull thud, and he lies still.