“Is something wrong, Bianca?”
I nod. It certainly is. Raising my hand in front of me, I curl my finger, asking him to bend down. Mikhail lowers his head. I wish he wasn’t wearing those sunglasses, because even without them, it’s hard to read him. I focus my gaze on his lips, still a couple of inches from mine, and see them curve up slightly. His hand cups my chin, and in the next moment, he crashes his mouth to mine.
It’s not a soft kiss, but a raw, hungry thing. He is always so perfectly controlled, but the few times his composure has slipped have me wondering what lurks below. I can’t wait for the moment when the reins on his control snap completely.
He lets go of my chin but doesn’t move away. “And now? Something still wrong?”
I smirk and shake my head. He is learning. I place my hand on his face, but the moment my fingers touch the skin of his right cheek, he lifts his head abruptly and steps back.
“We should go if we want to avoid traffic,” he says and opens the passenger’s door for me.
We are halfway to the apartment when Mikhail takes out his phone and calls someone. He’s speaking Russian again, and the only words I catch are “Ford Explorer”。 The person on the other end says something, and then Mikhail cuts the call.
“We’re taking a small detour,” he says.
We keep a steady pace, driving for about twenty minutes. Soon enough, we leave the hustle and bustle of the city traffic behind, and there are fewer buildings fronting the highway. We're headed somewhere out of town. Suddenly, Mikhail floors the gas pedal. I grab the door handle and hold on as if my life depends on it. The speedometer on the dash starts climbing, fast, reaching almost one hundred miles per hour. Mikhail looks in the rearview mirror and makes a sharp right turn, taking a narrow dirt road. I look behind at the black Ford Explorer taking the same turn and speeding after us. Mikhail keeps driving, maintaining the distance for twenty more minutes, then turns onto another dirt road leading to a factory visible in the distance. His phone rings once, then stops.
“Take my phone,” he says. “Send a message to Denis. It’s the number I just called.”
I grab the phone, find the call in the log, and open a message window.
“Type… I need one of them alive.”
I tense, my fingers freezing above the keyboard for a second, then type the message and send it.
“Now, listen to me carefully,” he says, glancing at the rearview mirror again. “I’ll park in front of the factory. You lock yourself in, get down onto the floor, and don’t leave the car. No matter what. Do you understand?”
I nod and try to control the panic building in my chest.
“If things go south, you start the car and leave. Go downtown, park somewhere crowded, and wait. Someone will come to pick you up as soon as possible. The car has GPS tracking.”
And leave him in the middle of nowhere? Is he insane? How will he get back?
“Do you understand what I’m saying, solnyshko?”
I don’t plan on leaving him, but it’s not the best moment to have that discussion, so I nod.
“Good.”
The car screeches to a stop in front of the factory entrance. Mikhail takes off his sunglasses, reaches under his seat, and takes out a gun.
“Lock yourself in.”
He jumps out and slams the door closed behind him, and then he’s gone.
I run inside the abandoned factory, cock the gun, and stand by the broken window, which gives me a direct view of the road and the entrance gate. The vehicle that followed us rushes through the gate a moment later and stops about five yards from my car. No one gets out for a couple of minutes. They’re probably debating what to do. Eventually, one of the back doors opens and a man gets out, holding a gun at the ready. He aims for the back window of my car, and shoots. Nothing happens, so he tries three more times.
It’s an armored car, you idiot.
I throw a quick look toward the gate. Where the fuck is Denis? If I start shooting, they might hightail it out of here, and we’ll lose them.
The other back door opens and a bald man in his forties gets out, carrying a shotgun. Shit. I’m not sure how many rounds the glass can take, and I don’t plan on risking Bianca’s life. I aim at the bald guy’s head, visible above the car door, and shoot. His head jerks backward and he crumbles to the ground at the same moment I off the second guy. There are a few seconds of silence, then the two front doors open. I duck before the driver and another guy open fire in my direction.
Glass from the window starts raining on top of me. One of the larger pieces embeds itself into my back, up by my shoulder. I reach back and take it out, slicing my hand in the process.