Page 45 of Bloody Savage God
I move through the hallway, passing the kitchen, until I get to the sitting room that is connected with the living room. Both rooms are currently occupied by what looks to be somewhere around fifty to sixty people, most of them sitting at the poker tables, cards in front of them.
There are large double doors that connect the two rooms, which are currently open, connecting the rooms into a larger space. The living room exits to the main entrance area, which makes this the perfect place to set up in order to flush everyone out to their cars.
The trick won’t be lighting the smoke grenades, but rather to ensure the smoke and noise will get these addicts concerned enough to give up on the fortune they are sure to win tonight. And to get the security team riled up enough they’ll need a while to get organized. Which is why I take out my gun, silencer on, and shoot through two of the windows.
Heads turn in confusion as the cool night air rushes in. The security people, not distracted by the greed or desperation that drives the players to these games, are quick to react, radioing their colleagues on the outside, requesting to know who the fuck is shooting at the place. At first, none of them notice that the glass splintered to the outside of the building, rather than in, though I’m sure it won’t take long before someone clues in.
A few of the players have jumped up. Those who are more concerned about their lives than their wallets. The majority are still sitting though, looking anything from dazed to annoyed at the interruption. The latter are those with good hands, I’d guess.
One of the security people heads in my direction. Time to get my ass moving. Only a few seconds have passed since I shot the window. I grab the smoke grenades from my pocket and quickly throw them into the room. The bangs of them are enough to get the rest of the people moving. Most are now up and heading for the exit.
My guess is none of them are eager to have the police find them at an illegal game, so they are plenty motivated. As am I, since I have to get my own ass out of here, too.
Initially I had suggested to Gianna that I would simply mix in with the fleeing crowd, but apparently the players are vetted carefully, so an unfamiliar face would be noticed. Instead, I’ll have to make it past Gianna’s security out back.
Fortunately, I have back-up.
It takes me less than twenty seconds to get back to the mud room. Unfortunately, one of the outside guards is already there, his eyes widening when he sees me, though his gun is already out pointing at me. Without having to think about it, I crouch and slam him in the gut with my shoulder, eliciting a gurgling groan. A second later, the bud of his gun hits me in the back of the head, which I suppose is still better than a bullet.
Twisting, I hang on to the guy while I get my feet up against the wall, kicking myself off with enough force to bring us down. The pain in my recently cut leg is piercing, but I ignore it. The guy isn’t properly trained, which I’m sure Gianna will be pissed about, but I’m not about to complain about the advantage. Once he is on his back, I straddle him, pushing the gun down and twisting his wrist until he lets go of it. Then I knock him out with a hard blow to the side of his head, courtesy of his own firearm.
Quickly, I get up, and turn to the door that leads back into the hallway, half expecting one of the other security guys to be running in, but apparently the noise of the stampeding gamblers was enough to mask the noise of the fight. Still, I have no intention to linger. The smoke grenades last for five minutes, but chances are the Bruno people have already moved them. Not that they will be able to convince the players to stay. Or at least not many.
Carefully scanning the back of the building through the external door’s window, I determine that Gianna has done her part during the confusion. Twosoldatiare out cold in the back, allowing me to run across the lawn and back behind the hedges for cover.
Moving fast, I still have to avoid being spotted by Mario Bruno’s men, but a few minutes later I’ve made it to the street and into the car, with Gianna pulling into traffic.
Gianna
We get to the hotel and I book a room with a new set of IDs I recently sourced from Vancouver. Mikhail seems to be rather pleased with himself, grinning each time he meets my eyes as we walk towards the three elevators at the back of the lobby.
Like a psychopath eager for his reward.
Not that he did something particularly impressive.
Well, perhaps he did. Even I can admit that. Getting past my uncle’s men, however basic their training might be, wasn’t a small feat. And he cleared that building without getting caught.
I’d been prepared to let that happen, of course. If he’d been caught by the police it would have simply pointed to the Russians, something my uncle would have had a hard time putting into question since he himself blamed them for the murder of my father.
Except that I find myself rather glad he didn’t get caught. A somewhat strange sensation.
It’s not that he is particularly likable. He’s easy to look at, that’s for sure. And he doesn’t bore me like most other men do when I talk to them for more than a minute. But, there is also the way he can take pain like no one else I’ve ever met. And I play in a dungeon full of masochists.
He’s intriguing. That’s what he is.
Which is why I haven’t sent him off yet, even though I probably should have. Instead, I allow him to follow me into the elevator up to one of the suites. And the damn Russian knows exactly what’s going on, based on the smirk he throws in my direction when we step out of the elevator.
The suite itself is elegant in an understated way. Very different from my own house where opulence is the name of the game. Here, the white couch and furniture contrasts with gray accents spread around the rooms, like the elegantly patterned rug in the living room and the simple vases on the coffee table and night stands. There is a kitchenette, a door to the spacious bathroom, and an archway with double doors that leads to the bedroom.
That’s where Mikhail is headed, pulling his shirt over his head.
“You should shower,” I tell him, even while I find myself transfixed by the muscles of his back. The man has a perfect physique and I long to run my knife over his skin again, claiming his body as mine.
Damn.Who knew Russians could be good for something?
Mikhail turns around. He’s already opened his belt and pulled down the zipper of his cargo pants, revealing his utter lack of underwear.
“Are you worried about a bit of sweat, princess?” he asks with that same damn smirk.
