Page 131 of The Enemy Protector
I slowly stir the noodles, my mind drifting to after dinner. Dessert that has nothing to do with anything sweet. I fear he’s unleashed a beast. I can’t get enough of the man.
Suddenly, there’s a hand over my mouth and an arm around my waist.
It’s not Sergei.
I know his touch. His scent.
I react without thinking.
I kick my foot back and reach for the boiling pot of water. I try to pick it up but I’m being dragged through the kitchen.
I rely on my training and become dead weight, letting my legs go out from under me. It shifts my attacker’s center of gravity and buys me half a second, which is enough. I jam my elbow back as hard as I can and feel it connect against the man’s ribs. A loud exhale pushes past my face and the hand drops from my mouth.
I scream for help, but I don’t stop fighting. I kick back again, this time my heavy boot doing some damage.
But he doesn’t release me. I'm being dragged sideways into the hallway with that same massive hand back over my mouth. He’s covering my nose. Intentional or accidental—the outcome will be the same.
You are a Baranov, I tell myself.You do not panic.
I don't panic. I plan.
One person. Male. Not talking. Professional means efficient, which means I have less time than I'd have with someone who wanted to make a point.
We're moving toward the back of the house. Away from the door. Away from the guards on the street.
The alcove is twenty feet ahead.
I claw at the hand on my face.
He slams me into the wall.
My head connects. The hallway goes white for a second and then my vision clears. I taste blood. I’ve cut the inside of my cheek. He spins me around and I see him for the first time: big, dark jacket, a face I don't know, eyes that are completely blank. The blankis the worst part. The men with something in their eyes can be reasoned with. This one is past reasoning.
He hits me.
The impact stuns me for a split second before pain blooms. My head snaps to the side, and I'm against the wall again.
I force my brain to focus.
He grabs my arm and pulls me toward him.
I go limp once again.
It's the opposite of what he expects. Dead weight is harder to move than struggling weight. It’s his turn to be thrown off. In that half-second I drive the heel of my hand up into his nose.
He reels back.
I run for the alcove.
The fake plant is my goal. My hand goes into the foliage and finds the cold grip of the Glock. I have it out and turned before he's crossed half the distance.
I point it at his chest.
"Stop.”
He stops. Looks at the gun. And then me. His nose is bleeding. His eyes are filled with fury. I feel something dripping over my lip and then the coppery taste of blood.
"On the floor," I say.
