Smothering his face in my crotch, I squeeze my legs and twist my hips at the same time. A less experienced man would’ve died from a broken neck in seconds, but Dimitrov isn’t any man. He’s a hardened criminal used to fighting dirty. He bends with the movement before falling to his knees, almost ripping my hands from the bar. I have no choice but to let him go or fall on the floor right in front of him.
I recover quickly. Before he can get to his feet, I swing back and kick out with my legs, hitting him full in the chest with the sharp heels of my shoes.
The kick hurts. It does enough damage to fold him backward and knock out his breath. Clutching a fistful of his shirt, he looks down at the red spots of blood seeping through the fabric where my heels have broken his skin.
“You’re going to pay for this,” he hisses, climbing to his feet.
I don’t hesitate. I slam a heel onto his hand where he’s grabbing the edge of the bed for support.
The unmistakable splintering of bone sounds, and blood pools around the hole my heel has left. Clasping his hand to his chest, he goes back down and utters a cry that’s bound to alarm the expert.
By now, Ilya and Yan should be on the balcony. At the sound of trouble, the expert will let Dimitrov’s guards in. The priority is stopping him from unlocking the door. I’ll deal with Dimitrov after. For the moment, Dimitrov is hurting enough to be out of action, even if just for a short while.
Using the strength in my arms, I swing myself over the bed to the other side while Dimitrov catches his breath on the floor with blood pumping from his hand. I barely feel the burn in my muscles or the jarring impact on my legs as I land on my feet in the heels. I’m about to make a beeline for the door when the mousy man appears in the frame. Taken aback, I stop dead. The man closes the door and locks it before leaning a shoulder against the wall in a confusingly casual stance.
A shot rings out from the other room. Even with the silencer, the sound resonates through me like a brass bell in a church tower.
Another shot is fired in answer.
Shit. Too late. The man let the guards in. Yan and Ilya are caught in a crossfire, and they’re outnumbered by three.
My body flashes hot and cold. A setup was the last thing we expected. We don’t have a backup plan, not for the war playing out in the other room. Our order to the hotel manager was clear. We didn’t want anyone on this floor until the job was done. The whole fourth floor was evacuated and closed for a so-called routine fumigation. With the silencers, it may take a while before someone realizes there’s a shootout happening on the floor. And if a guest or employee does catch on to what’s going down and calls the police, we’re still fucked. If captured, they’ll torture us for information on our alliances and clients before locking us up so deep and far away we’ll rot before anyone finds us. The government won’t come to our aid. They can’t admit they ordered the hit on Dimitrov. They, too, were clear with their order.
If caught, we’re on our own. We can’t rely on help.
My heart and mind race when I think about Yan and what’s happening behind that locked door, but I have to trust him to fight his battle. And I have to take care of mine.
I turn my attention to the mousy man, who probably escaped in here to protect himself and Dimitrov from the bullets flying around next door. “Go into the bathroom and stay there. You don’t need to get hurt.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he addresses Dimitrov. “There are two men fighting off five. They don’t stand a chance. I’m sure your team can spare a man. Shall I get one of the guards?”
“No,” Dimitrov grits out, stumbling to his feet. “The bitch is mine. I’m going to kill her with my bare hands and fuck her while I do it.”
So the setup goes this far. The mousy man was never an art expert. Whatever he is, his carelessly spoken words incite me to fury. He doesn’t know Yan and Ilya. They do stand a chance.
They have to.
The man shrugs. “As you wish.”
The expert or whatever the hell he is doesn’t budge. He doesn’t come for me. Which is good, as Dimitrov is back on his feet.
Spinning, I turn sideways so I have both men in my sight as I assess the situation. Dimitrov plunges his injured hand into the ice bucket, probably to stop the bleeding and dull the pain somewhat. Then he grabs the bottle of Dom Pérignon in his good hand. Bringing the bottle down hard, he smashes it on the edge of the table. Champagne boils over the broken shards and spills onto the carpet.
I reach behind me for the cord of the lamp on the nightstand, twisting it once around my wrist as I taunt, “Now that’s a waste of good champagne.”
Holding the broken bottle like a knife in front of him, Dimitrov charges. I jerk up my wrist, pulling the plug from the socket. The cord serves as a lasso and the lamp as a heavy weapon. I swirl the lamp through the air once before lancing it at Dimitrov.
The metal stand hits him on the wrist, and the bulb explodes, paper-thin fragments of glass raining down on the carpet. They crunch under his shoes as he hops around on them, dropping the broken bottle and shaking his wrist with an ugly curse.
“One for Mink,” the mousy man says. “Zero for Casmir.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dimitrov shouts, baring his teeth as if he wants to rip me apart with his canines.
I lash out again, this
