Page 31 of Bound By Sin
"Yes, sir," I say, feeling the added pressure growing. Something tells me Roman would never have let this happen. If he knew the plane was on time, why would he send that message? Besides, he said he'd be unreachable, so how would he get through to me? None of this makes sense. I'm gonna have to make Timur check out my phone again, because something isn't adding up.
I lead them through the terminal toward the parking garage. The American walks beside me and his handlers fall in behind us in silence. The terminal is quiet this time of night, just a few stragglers pulling luggage, a cleaning crew pushing a cart between gates.
My car is on the second level, but we have to take the stairs because the elevator's out of service. And when we come out onto the second level, I hear footsteps behind us that don't belong to our group. At first I think it's more stragglers makingtheir way home after a long day, but my gut tells me something's off.
I turn to see six men in dark clothing, all with ski masks on, fanning out from the stairwell we just exited. A few of them look to be carrying weapons of some sort, and it instantly makes my pulse spike.
"Get behind me," I tell the American.
"What the fuck is this?" the handler with the bag says, backing up.
"Get behind me now."
The six of them close the distance fast. The first one swings a bat at my head, and I duck under it and drive my fist into his stomach. He folds and I grab the bat on the way down and rip it out of his hands. The second one comes from my left with a knife, and I swing the bat into his forearm, hearing the bone crack. The knife clatters to the concrete and he drops to one knee screaming.
The handlers are hiding, but the American doesn't run. He steps forward and catches the third attacker with a right cross that sends the man spinning into the side of a parked car. The impact dents the door panel and the man slides down it and doesn't get up. The American shakes his hand out and squares up, bouncing on his toes, and for a second I see exactly why Roman wanted this man on our roster. He moves with a speed that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, and the power in that single punch would've ended most professional fights.
"Behind you!" I shout.
He turns but the fourth attacker isn't coming for him. The handler with the bag is the target of this guy's pipe wrench that smacks him across the skull. It sends him spinning until he slams into the concrete hard. Blood pools under his head and spreads across the pavement in a dark, expanding circle.
"No!" the second handler shouts, lunging toward his partner.
"Stay back!" I swing the bat at the wrench carrier and catch him across the ribs, but the bat flies from my hand, and one of his buddies picks it up. He staggers sideways, and I follow with a roundhouse kick that connects with his shoulder and sends the wrench flying out of his grip. It bounces across the concrete and rolls under a car.
Then it's chaos, the three of us against three of them left on their feet. All I can do is fight off the man in front of me and try to keep an eye on what's happening. One of them has the American pinned up against a concrete barrier with no way out. He comes in low with a bat aimed at the legs and the American tries to sidestep, but the barrier doesn't give him enough room.
The bat catches him across the left knee and the crack is so loud, I can hear it over the scuffling. The American goes down with a deafening roar, grabbing his knee with both hands, his face twisted in agony. And I've had enough.
I didn't pull my weapon because I can't afford to draw attention, but enough is enough. I tug the gun out of my boot and fire two shots into the air, making the attackers stop in their tracks. It takes a few seconds but they grab their buddies and start running, and I don't have energy to chase them down. Besides, after that, I can't let the American sit here to be arrested if cops show up.
He's on the ground clutching his knee with his handler kneeling beside him trying to help him up, but the American can't put any weight on the leg. His face is white and he's grinding his teeth, groaning.
"We need to move," I tell them. "Right now. There could be more coming." His buddy is dead, no two ways about it. That much blood with eyes wide open staring off is never a good sign. We don't even have time to scoop him up.
"He can't walk," the handler says.
"Then help me carry him. We gotta get out of here. Gunshots draw attention."
I get under the American's left arm and the handler gets under his right and we lift him between us. He's two hundred and forty pounds at least and his injured leg hangs useless. We half-carry, half-drag him across the parking lot to my car. I get the back door open and he slumps inside, looking back over my shoulder at his friend on the ground bleeding out. I'll have to send a team to clean this, but right now, getting away is more important.
Nothing about this night has gone right. If Roman sent me that message, this is his mess. If he didn't, then we have a bigger problem than we know. I race around the car, slamming doors, and get in the driver's seat to take off.
Whoever that was knew exactly where I would be and when I'd be there, even with the delay. It was a setup from the start, which tells me whatever’s going on with my phone is having real-life consequences I'm not liking very much.
Timur and I have to get to the bottom of this because it's really starting to cost me. And if the boss finds out I fucked this up while he's on his honeymoon, I might just be out of a job.
16
ZORA
I've had Kazimir's tux jacket hanging on the back of my bedroom door for a week and every morning, I walk past it and catch the scent of his cologne on the fabric. I told him I'd bring it back today because I haven't seen him since the wedding and I miss him. I shouldn't be missing him, and I want to be out of this arrangement as quickly as possible, but he's been too busy with work to meet with me. This impromptu visit should be my chance to break it off—before my brothers get a chance to stop me.
God knows I need to. It already hurts every time Alisa texts me and asks why I'm forgetting about her to spend all my time with Kaz. The truth is I'm avoiding her over guilt. I know what I’m doing is wrong. I may have started out thinking it was justifiable because he's a competitor, but nothing about this is good.
And my stomach's been off all morning. It's not nausea, exactly, more of a low churning that comes and goes and makes food sound like a terrible idea. I chalked it up to nerves at first, but it's been three days now and nerves don't usually last threedays. Though, it has definitely been building as this meeting approaches, so I can't say it's not nerves either.
When I get to his house, the windows are dark like no one's home. The Uber driver waits for me, though I could always call a different one if I need to, but who knows how long Kaz has to spend? I wait a few minutes before ringing the bell again, and this time the door swings open to reveal a very beat-up man.
