Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
He stopped moving suddenly.
“No,” I nearly whined. “Keep going.” I wanted out of that apartment so bad.
“That bastard Petrov is cowering in a room somewhere.” He grimaced. “I say we go find him and end this.”
It was the right thing to do, but the voice inside my head told me to say fuck that. I was badly hurt, and taking the elevator to the lobby, to where Bodhi was, seemed like the smarter move, and even more importantly, it was protocol. If a marshal was in any way compromised, be that mentally or physically, we were supposed to stand down.
Instead I said, “Yeah.” If anyone else was still alive, hopefully Crouse and I would be able to neutralize them.
Moving through the wide-open space, I looked everywhere, as did Crouse.
Leaving the main room, we walked toward the kitchen, then beyond, to where an enormous marble-and-wood dining room table was, my finger tensed on the trigger, ready to double-tap any lurking targets, but found none.
We cleared the butler’s pantry and wine cellar, and then I saw the breakfast nook facing out toward the patio. Crouse caught a glimmer of movement to his left and swiveled around. I arched my gun sights across the space as we moved toward the sliding glass doors.
Once we were outside, we saw Burian Petrov cowering beside a heavy wooden Adirondack chair. In the same beat, Crouse saw the blur of motion at our three o’clock. He spun around to a guy standing midway across the patio, his rifle pointed directly at us.
“Kayson, you fuck, you did this to me!” Petrov shrieked at Rasha’s ex. I was hoping she was on her way to protective custody with Washington by now.
“Die!” Kayson yelled at me.
Bad guys always announced their intentions. I never understood that.
I fired in that half-second. Kayson had just enough time to register a look of dumb surprise as he heard the two rapid cracks of my machine gun before he could unleash a couple of rounds of his own. He dropped his machine gun and fell backward, his arms flailing as he flopped to the ground, blood pooling around him.
“Get up, you fuck,” Crouse demanded of Petrov.
Petrov rose. His oily slicked-back blond hair and five o’clock shadow made him look like a nineties porn star. But hiding out took a toll on a person, and he’d been evading law enforcement for months. He looked leaner than the last time I’d seen him, and his eyes were hollow. He held his hands up in surrender.
“I give up.”
I kept a bead on Petrov, finger on the trigger as Crouse put me in the matching chair to the one the mobster had been crouched beside. Frisking him fast, Crouse shoved him back, away from him but didn’t move, just held his gun on him.
“What’re you doing?” I asked.
Crouse slid his gaze across to the Russian. “Change of plans.” His expression tightened. “Now fucking move,” he growled, waving the Glock at Petrov as they made for the balcony.
“We’re going the wrong way,” Petrov said, his voice cracking.
“No, we’re not,” Crouse replied tonelessly, marching him toward the edge of the terrace.
“What the fuck is going on?” he howled.
As soon as they reached the guardrail, Petrov turned around. Crouse kept just enough distance to see the sweat bead on his brow. Petrov looked at Crouse in stark terror registering on his face when he saw the Glock pointed at the spot between his eyes.
“You can’t do this,” he croaked.
“I can,” Crouse told him, and shot out his kneecap. “But I won’t.”
Petrov screamed in agony, and Crouse limped back over to me, moved the other chair, and took a seat beside me.
“You should have shot him with something not yours,” I said, having trouble forming thoughts.
“His word over mine. Are you going to back him up or me?”
I grunted.
“I should have thrown him over the side.”
“Very Untouchables,” I said, chuckling. “Very Nitti is in the car.”
He groaned loudly. “Don’t make me laugh. Everything hurts.”
“Yeah,” I said with a long sigh.
“Oh, Jed,” he gasped as I slid off the chair to the ground. “We shouldn’t have—”
“Federal marshals! On your knees!”
“Don’t shoot,” Crouse called out. He raised his hands, seeing no point in getting shot after surviving a damn firefight. “I’m FBI.”
Petrov was still shrieking, and then I felt a warm hand on my forehead and another on my side. I tried to open my eyes, but I was done.
“Jed,” Wes said sharply. “Open your eyes and fuckin’ look at me right fuckin’ now.”
I had to listen to him, but I could only manage squinting up at him, and he forced a smile.
“Say you understand. Stay here.”
He meant stay as in don’t die. “Yeah,” I murmured and closed my eyes.
“I need the EMTs up here now!”
There was scrambling and movement, but I was cold, my body so heavy.