Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,90

to the ground as he jams the barrel of the gun under my chin.

“Move again, and I blow your fucking head off,” he growls, and I believe him.

I see my death in his flat, dark eyes.

“What the fuck, Arnold?” a second voice exclaims, and another man appears above us. Also armed with a gun, he looks to be some dozen years older than my captor, with receding salt-and-pepper hair and ruddy skin flushed from the exertion of the run. Breathing heavily, he orders, “Put a bullet in her and be done.”

“Not yet,” Arnold mutters, eyes glued to my mouth. “She’s pretty. You ever notice that?”

The other man’s voice turns gruff. “That’s not the way we do things.”

“Who gives a fuck? She’s dead meat anyway. Who cares if we enjoy a bite before we bury it?”

My stomach heaves with a fresh surge of nausea, and only the cold barrel jammed under my chin keeps me from clawing the asshole’s eyes out as he lets go of my wrist and presses a thick, dirty thumb to my tightly clamped lips.

“Just finish the fucking job already.”

The older man’s tone is sharper, more impatient, and for a moment, I’m half-afraid, half-hopeful that Arnold will obey. But he just leans in and drags a wet, jerky-scented tongue over my cheek, like a dog—and as an involuntary cry of disgust escapes my throat, he jams his thumb into my mouth, pushing it so far in I gag.

“That’s nice, bitch,” he whispers, eyes gleaming with lust and feral excitement. “That’s real—”

A sharp crack shatters the silence, and he yanks his hand back. A millisecond later, he’s on his feet above me, gun coming up as he spins around lightning fast—yet still not fast enough.

The second bullet slams him into the tree behind me, and as I scramble backward on my hands and ass, I see the older man already on the ground, mouth slack and skull blown open, brains spilling out like moldy cottage cheese.

52

Nikolai

I’m moving before the sound of my last shot fades, leaping out from behind the cover of the trees to close the distance between me and Chloe. Her gaze jerks up from the dead man at her side, her face streaked with dirt and blood, her brown eyes uncomprehending as she backs away, mouth opening in a silent scream at my approach.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s me.” Dropping to my knees, I gather her against me, feeling the convulsive trembling of her body—and of mine. I’m shaking with relief and rage and the aftermath of bone-chilling terror, the awful fear that we were too late.

We were almost at the gas station when Konstantin called me again with the news that his team had accomplished the nearly impossible feat of hacking into an NSA satellite, and that he was able to pinpoint the exact location of Chloe’s car—and the black pickup truck that was less than a half hour behind her.

To say that we broke every speed limit in existence would be an understatement. Arkash is still recovering from the half-dozen times we nearly flew off a cliff. And we almost didn’t make it anyway. The terror that assaulted me when I saw her car in a crumpled, burning heap… If it hadn’t been for the empty pickup next to it and the sound of gunfire nearby, I would’ve lost my fucking mind.

Actually, I did lose it when I saw her on the ground with the dark-haired assassin straddling her, twisted lust painted on his face.

The motherfucker was going to rape her before killing her.

It was the only reason she wasn’t already dead.

My arms tighten around her reflexively, and she makes a faint sound of distress.

I immediately pull back. “Are you hurt, zaychik? Injured in any way?”

She doesn’t reply, just stares at me with huge, blank eyes, her pupils blown so wide her irises look black. She’s in shock, and no wonder. Even a trained soldier would be traumatized.

Gently, I lay her down and begin inspecting her for injuries, starting with her ribs and stomach. I’m relieved to find only scrapes and bruises on her torso, but as my hand brushes over her right arm, she jerks with a pained cry, her face turning gray. I snatch my hand back, my pulse doubling at the sight of the red smear on my fingers as she squeezes her eyes shut, her breathing painfully shallow.

Fuck. She is hurt.

Steadying my hands, I rip open her sleeve.

“Gunshot?” Pavel asks in Russian, appearing at my side, and I nod grimly,