Page 65 of The Bratva Sinner

“Down!” Mike grabs me, his body covering mine as we hit the ground. Shopping bags scatter. My palms scrape against the rough concrete.

Mike is shouting in Russian. His gun is out, and he’s firing at something I can’t see. The sound is deafening in the enclosed space. My ears ring, and time slows.

I look at George. He’s not moving. Blood pools beneath his head, spreading across the concrete in a dark stain that’s growing too fast.

Oh God. Oh God, he’s dead.

My hands shake as I crawl toward him. I don’t know what I’m thinking. Maybe I can help him or stop the bleeding. But when I reach him and see his eyes staring at nothing, I know it’s too late.

His gun is still in his holster.

I don’t think. I just act. My fingers close around the grip, and I pull it free. I’ve shot guns before. Mom made sure I knew how.

I hear footsteps running toward us. A man appears from behind a concrete pillar with his gun raised.

I lift George’s weapon and fire.

The recoil jolts through my arms. The shot goes wide, hitting the pillar behind him. But it’s enough to make him duck for cover.

Mike is up now, moving toward the threat. He fires twice. The man goes down.

“Stay down!” Mike orders me.

I’m exposed. I crawl toward a silver sports car and hide behind the tire that is way too small.

Another man appears. Then another. How many are there?

Mike takes one down, but the other gets a shot off. Mike staggers but doesn’t fall. He keeps firing.

I hear footsteps and heavy breathing behind me. I spin around just as someone grabs me from behind.

An arm wraps around my throat, cutting off my air. I drop the gun and use my hands to claw at the arm.

“Got you, little bitch,” a voice hisses in my ear.

I throw my head back, trying to connect with his face. He moves, and I only hit his shoulder with the back of my head. His arm tightens around my throat.

I can’t breathe. I can’t scream for Mike. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

Mike appears with his gun raised. “Let her go!”

“Fuck you!” The man holding me uses me as a shield, dragging me backward.

I hear more gunshots. Our driver—I don’t even know his name—comes running from where he was waiting with the vehicle. He can’t get a clear shot without hitting me.

My captor fires back.

The driver goes down with a scream, clutching his stomach.

I thrash harder, but the arm around my throat is like iron.

Mike is trying to get a shot, but we’re moving too fast. Suddenly, my body is thrown into an SUV. I land hard on the seat, and my head bounces off the opposite door. Pain explodes through my skull.

The door slams. The engine revs, and I’m thrown against the seat with the acceleration.

I push myself up,dizzy and disoriented. There are two men in the front seat. The one who grabbed me is in the back with me, and his gun is pointed at my chest.

“Stay down,” he orders.