Page 150 of The Bratva Sinner

The guard shifts his weight.I test the zip tie again. It bites into my wrists. There’s no breaking free.

“You’re not so pretty anymore,” the one guard says.

“Still prettier than you.”

He holds up a stun gun, and I know things are about to get a lot worse.

He turns it on, and the sound of electricity fills the room. I’m bracing myself for the pain when the entire room shakes. The overhead light swings, and the percussion of an explosion knocks the guard by the door to his knees.

I smile at the one holding the stun gun. “Knock, knock, motherfucker. The Sokolovs are here.”

43

Lila

I don’t think about what I’m doing; I just drive and hope I remember the way back. When it starts to look familiar, I scan the street until I spot several SUVs that I know belong to Maksim’s people.

I park two blocks out, the same way Sampson did hours ago, and go the rest of the way on foot.

I spot men moving through the shadows. I stay against the wall of a smaller building and wait for the right time to move.

When the first explosion splits the night, the percussion hits me in the chest. I stare in shock as the sky above the warehouse blooms orange. Another explosion. The ground shakes under my feet. Glass rains down. A car alarm screams in response.

My ears are ringing.

I crouch behind a rusty shipping container and watch the warehouse. Men pour out of every opening, reminding me of the cockroaches that fled anytime we turned a light on in the trailer. Dozens of them, shouting in Albanian and English. Some shootat shapes in the dark that I can barely make out. Return fire comes from multiple directions.

More shadows move along the perimeter. Sergei brought an army. They hadn’t been in the house unless they filtered in after I’d been locked down.

There’s a second where I genuinely consider staying behind this container until it’s over. A small, rational part of my brain points out that I have one gun, limited ammunition, and no training beyond what a now-dead woman taught me in a field in Arkansas. These men do this for a living. I think they have this under control. I’ll get in the way.

Then, I see Nikolai.

He’s moving along the eastern wall of the warehouse with two men flanking him. He’s maybe forty feet from me. I don’t move or breathe. If he sees me, he’ll tell me to leave. I don’t want to distract him.

Then he goes down.

One second, he’s moving, and the next, his left leg gives out, and he drops to one knee. His hand goes to his side. His two men close around him, but I can see from here that he’s been hit. He’s still moving, trying to push to his feet. The two men around him are focused on keeping him upright instead of covering the ground ahead.

I stop thinking and move.

I keep low and to the shadows along the fence line. I thought about my mom telling me what to do if she ever told me to run. Back then, I’d thought it was a game.Make yourself small. Don’trun. Running draws the eye. Walk like you’re supposed to be there, and walk fast.

A man comes around the corner of a truck parked in front of me.

Albanian. Not one of ours. His eyes widen when he sees me.

I don’t hesitate.

The gun comes up, I fire once, and he drops.

I don’t stop moving.

The main door to the warehouse is hanging off its hinges from the breach. Smoke pours out of it, making it difficult to see. I press myself against the exterior wall beside the door and listen.

Gunfire inside. Shouting. Something heavy hitting the floor.

The smoke is thick. The large outer room is a wreck. There are overturned crates, and two men lying in their own blood. I move toward the inner door, the one they pushed me through hours ago when they walked me in to face Arlind.