The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,57

He squeezes.

One blow with both my fists would knock him out.

“Again, I couldn’t bring myself to kill you. I’d rather have you by my side again, where you belong. Serving your old master.” He’s behind me now, where I can’t see him.

Where he can’t see my face.

I make a few micromovements of discovery. My ankles aren’t bound. I’m not tied to this seat. And that’s when I remember—you can’t fire a gun on an airplane.

Those thugs would know that, too.

“Would you like to serve me again, Oleg?”

I wait for him to walk around to the front of me. He’s holding a syringe. A fatal dose of poison if I answer incorrectly? It doesn’t matter. People always underestimate how quickly I can move for my size. I lunge out of my chair and twist his head around on his neck, snapping it. I take the syringe from his hand as he falls.

My movements are slower than I’d like—the after-effects of the drug still weigh me down, but I have far too much practice in clearing a room for it to stop me.

The thugs in the back come for me, guns drawn. They won’t fire them, not unless they want us all to die.

I plunge the syringe into the first guy’s neck and dodge a blow from the second one, knocking into his belly with my elbow. I punch him again with an awkward side-swing of both arms, but I put enough power behind it to lift him off his feet and knock the wind out of him.

A blow to the face, and he goes down. The mustached man picks up a gun from one of the fallen men and points it at me, his hand trembling.

I shake my head.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.”

I risk it. I take two long steps to reach him, snatch the gun from his hand and strike him in the temple with it. He goes down.

I search the pockets of the thugs and find the zip ties, then fasten them around the wrists of the three guys still breathing. Killing them might be cleaner, but I can make that call later.

Now I have to get this plane turned around.

Chapter 14

Story

I don’t know how many hours it is before Ravil gets a text from an unknown number, but it comes. There’s a wild scramble of activity.

Oleg’s alive. On a plane flying back to Chicago.

I cry more tears—this time of relief. And then there’s more waiting.

As I wait, my grief morphs into anxiety. A gnawing, itching anxiety. The kind that’s plagued me my whole life. I consider it to be my gut instinct telling me when something’s not right.

When it’s time to bail.

And the longer the minutes stretch until Oleg is back, the stronger the feeling grows.

I get bundled into the back of Oleg’s Denali with Nikolai and Dima in front, and we leave, along with two other vehicles, for some private airstrip I’ve never heard of.

It’s snowing. Thick, wet flakes that hit the windshield and melt the minute they touch it. Nikolai drives. Dima brings a laptop along and is searching things as we drive, making short comments to his brother in Russian, then pausing to throw an apologetic smile over his shoulder at me.

The nervous buzzing grows louder, so I can’t think about anything. I can’t remember if I’ve eaten anything today. I don’t think I have. My lips are dry, my throat is parched.

Vaguely, I realize I have to perform tonight at Rue’s. It seems like last night’s performance was a lifetime ago.

When we get there, Nikolai turns around and says, “I’m going to need you to wait in the Denali, okay? Please don’t come out, or you’ll be an accessory to anything you see out there. Understand?”

I think I nod. I’m not sure. My brain is barely functioning.

And then I’m alone in the vehicle. I should be excited. I get to see Oleg. I thought he was dead, but he’s coming back to me.

Except it’s clear as day that there is no going “back.”

I’ll never feel the way I did last night again.

That moment has passed, and we are on to a new one. And in this one, I don’t even want to be here.

Sitting in the warmed seats, watching the sleet fall, I feel like I’m waiting for something awful to happen.

But what?

Is it Oleg coming back?

No.

It’s me breaking up with him.

That’s the gnawing anxiety. I know this isn’t right. I can’t do this thing with him.

Oleg

We land back at the same airstrip we