Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
“—pop that fucker right in the head.” The words, spoken in Russian in a gruff male voice, jolt me like a gunshot. Instinctively, I freeze in place, my military training kicking in as I scan my surroundings, searching for the threat.
There. Two o’clock, a round table behind the column, in Ella’s section. The column is hiding most of the table from my view, but I can tell there are two men sitting there.
“One shot, that’s all we’re likely getting, Sokolov said,” the speaker continues. “And since the target’s likely to be wearing a vest—”
“I know,” the other man interrupts, his deep voice smooth despite the hint of annoyance in his tone. “Aim for the head.”
A chill skitters through my veins. I didn’t misunderstand. These are indeed professionals discussing an upcoming hit—and I’m crouching right there, less than two meters away from them.
The same column that’s blocking them from my view is hiding me and has been for the past couple of minutes, which must be why they’re talking so freely. Though the bar is fairly crowded, they’re in a nook of sorts, shielded by the column, and with the noise level in the room, nobody at the other tables can hear them.
I can, though.
And if I get up from where I’m crouching, they’ll realize that, and I may not walk out of here alive.
A year ago, I wouldn’t have blinked twice, confident in my ability to handle whatever comes my way. But in my current state, I’m no match for an aggressive rat, much less two men who specialize in killing.
Men who are as dangerous as I am.
Quickly, I assess my options. I can stay here and hope no one sees me until the Russians leave, but odds are, Ella will come upon me at any moment.
The other alternative—and the one I’m leaning toward—is to get up and feign total ignorance. After all, it’s entirely possible that I don’t speak Russian well enough to understand what they said. It’s highly likely, in fact, as most Hungarians of my generation learn English in school instead.
Yes, that’s it. I’m just going to play dumb. And to do that, I have to expose myself rather than wait to be exposed.
The surge of adrenaline steadies my hands. Picking up the tray, I rise to my feet, loudly muttering curses in Hungarian. Because that’s what an innocent, ignorant waitress would do if she spilled beer all over her tray and had no idea she was within grabbing distance of two killers.
“Mina, are you okay?” Ella asks, passing by with her own tray of drinks, and I give her a reassuring grin.
“Yep, just clumsy today.” I’m purposefully not looking in the direction of the table, but I can feel the men’s eyes on me as I step behind the column and head back to the bar to swap out the beer bottles.
As I walk, my heart hammers in my chest, and a trickle of cold sweat runs down my spine. I can sense their stares following me, but I keep the smile on my face as I swing behind the bar, throw the bottles in the recycling bin, and start cleaning off the tray.
See? I’m just doing my job. That’s what I’m hoping my casual actions say. I’m an innocent waitress, that’s all.
When my tray is clean, I load it up with more bottles and sashay over to my section, still avoiding looking in the direction of the column. My pulse is much too fast, but the expression on my face is bright and cheerful, as befits someone working for tips.
Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. After a half hour, I risk a glance behind the column as I deliver cocktails to a group of college girls.
Shit.
The two men are still there, and they’re still looking at me.
I quickly look away, but not before I register their appearance. One is huge, both tall and broad, like a linebacker in American football. His head is shaved, and his skull is decorated with tattoos, emphasizing his strong, almost brutish features. He’s dressed casually, in a pair of jeans and a black hoodie over a dark T-shirt. The other one is of the same height but a leaner build, and is wearing a stylish pair of dress slacks with a white button-up shirt, as if he’s just come from a business meeting or an interview. His hair is dark brown, but his eyes are light and striking, though I can’t tell the exact color from this distance.
In general, everything about the leaner man is striking, from the strong, chiseled lines of his darkly handsome face to the power and self-assurance evident in his deceptively indolent pose.
Instinctively, I know he’s the one I need to fear.
He’s the one who’ll decide if I get home alive.
To my shock, my heartbeat jacks up, and a frisson of heat blooms between my legs as I picture myself fighting him. My body clearly didn’t get the memo that danger—something I’ve always been drawn to—is a bad thing for me right now. Even worse, my brain seems to be interpreting the effects of adrenaline as sexual arousal… as attraction to the man who’s likely considering whether he needs to slice my throat or not.