Page 203 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
A Russian voice crackles over the radio.
Fuck.
What’s at stake stabs me in the throat as I stare into Guchkov’s soulless black eyes.
He planned this well. A dead hand system for retribution we can’t just turn off.
There’s no stopping what’s in motion. But what’s taking the museum security so long?
I can already hear distant voices coming from the hall, and if I turn around, I’ll probably see faces peering through the ruined door.
The cops will roll up with a tactical team any second. And it won’t help us if Black Talon has goon squads ready to act remotely.
Time turns to mud again. My brain works too fast, grinding in the sludge like stuck wheels.
I need to stop innocent people from getting hurt, and with Guchkov down, I only have seconds.
The corner of his mouth curls bitterly.
He thinks he’s won, even if he gets arrested because good guys don’t take risks with people’s lives. That’s the lesson.
Even though he’s pinned down under me, he believes he has the upper hand. One last gasp of power and bloodlust before he goes into custody.
“Cleo,” I growl. “Get the egg out of its case. Now.”
“Huh?” I hear her gasp. “But—”
“Listen to me.”
Another second and I hear her unlock it. I don’t look away from Guchkov’s face, smeared with blood and still so smug.
“Not one move,” I warn coldly. “I’ll bury a bullet in your head before I let you hurt anyone else.”
“How noble.” He sneers thickly. “You talk like it isn’t too late.”
I bring my mouth closer to his ear. “There’s nothing fucking noble about me. You should know.”
He doesn’t move, but I sense him shrugging.
What the hell do I know about Black Talon?
They’re beyond morals and even concerns about their own survival. They’ve torn apart third world countries, squeezing blood and treasure from war zones.
Guchkov is roughly fifty and he’s been in this underworld his whole life. Bloodthirsty, cruel. Greedy.
I hear the case snap open. Someone makes a small, miserable noise, Talbot or Fairfax.
They hate exposing the Hera Egg to harm even in this mess. They’re collectors of precious things, whatever else they are.
Think, think!
Guchkov is the boss, but his son is a tactical leader. I remember it from my research. Odds are, he’s involved in a heist this big, probably overseeing goons at one of the hostage sites.
“Tell your men to stand down,” I say, holding up the radio. “If you don’t, tell your son he’ll hear your last breath.”
Surprise flickers in Guchkov’s black eyes.
If the bastard thought I wouldn’t do this, I wouldn’t be this cruel, he doesn’t know me.
