48. Chapter 48

48

Wren

" I 'm just going to see who I'm dealing with," I mutter, sliding out of the Uber. The driver gives me a weird look, probably wondering why the fuck I want to be dropped off in this shithole. I don't blame him.

The industrial district stretches out before me, a maze of rusted metal and crumbling concrete. The setting sun casts long shadows, turning every alley into a potential ambush point. I scan the area, my hand instinctively hovering near the gun tucked in my waistband.

No movement. No sound except the distant hum of traffic. It's too fucking quiet.

I duck behind a dumpster, the stench of rot making my eyes water. From here, I can see most of the street. Rows of warehouses line both sides, their windows dark and lifeless. All except one.

About a block down, four guys stand outside a nondescript building. They don't pass for regular guards, all buttoned-up with guns blatantly in their grips.

Guess I owe Jake a thank you. His intel was good, for once.

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. What if I don't make it out of this? What happens to Em and Lenny, then?

No. Fuck that noise. I'm not dying in some pissing contest with the Russian mob.

I take a deep breath, forcing my racing thoughts to slow.

Focus, Wren. What do I know?

I clench my jaw.

Nothing. I know fucking nothing.

All I know is that I won't be a sitting duck, waiting for them to "tell" me what they want from me—and why they captured John. Or how they even know about us. Right now, my mind's a fucking tornado. Is this shit because of John's usual fuckups, or… could it be about D?

I spot a rusted-out shipping container a few yards away and make a dash for it, keeping low. My back hits the cool metal as I try to slow my breathing.

In, out. In, out. Get your shit together, Wren.

I check my phone again. Shit, how did I miss it? D called me thirty minutes ago. But when I look at the signal bars—fuck me, no service. Of course.

From where I'm crouched, it's way too far to see or hear what's going on over there.

Damn fuckballs .

A rumble in the distance catches my attention. I peek around the edge of the container, squinting in the fading light. Three black SUVs roll into view, looking eerily similar to the one I saw earlier. But I can't be sure.

Why the hell am I even here?

This is suicide. I should be halfway across the city by now, not playing Nancy Drew in Gangster Land.

Christ, for John. He is your father, after all.

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment. Focus, dammit. I need to get closer, see what I'm really dealing with.

Keeping low, I move from shadow to shadow, praying they won't hear the thundering of my heart. As I get closer, I freeze. There, by the warehouse entrance—the same goons who paid me a visit at Joe's diner.

Fuck.

This is about D.

The realization hits me like a sledgehammer. They nabbed John to get to me—so they can get to D.

Shit, fuck, shit.

I need to get out of here, warn D. This is way over my head.

I'm about to move back when a radio crackles to life on one of the guy's belts.

" Boss zdes' ," a gruff voice announces.

"Boss's here," I whisper to myself, my curiosity piqued. Who's this boss motherfucker?

I halt, pressing myself against the cold brick wall. A massive truck rumbles into the lot, looking like it's hauling enough firepower to start World War III.

Two figures hop out, a man and a woman. They're dressed like they're cosplaying as Bond villains, all sleek lines and dark leather. I almost want to laugh, but the ice in my veins tells me this is no joke.

I raise my phone, zooming in to get a better look. The man comes into focus first. He's tall, built like a brick shithouse with shoulders that could bench-press a car. His hair's a shock of silver, cropped close to his skull like he's fresh out of boot camp. But it's his eyes that make my blood run cold—pale blue, like a frozen wasteland. They're the kind of eyes that have seen too much and don't give a shit anymore.

He's got scars, one nasty one running along his jaw. This isn't some mob boss who sits behind a desk. This fucker's seen action, and I'd bet my last dollar he wouldn't hesitate to add my scalp to his collection.

I shift the camera, trying to get a look at the woman.

Her back's facing me. But holy shit. From the back, she's got a body that could stop traffic, curves and danger wrapped up in skin-tight leather. She turns, and I get a glimpse of her face.

Dark hair frames a face that's equal parts beauty and… evil .

These aren't your run-of-the-mill thugs. This is the big leagues, and I'm so far out of my depth I can't even see the surface.

I lower my phone, my hands shaking. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? More importantly, what the fuck have I gotten John into?

A cold certainty settles in my gut. I can't do this alone. I need help. I need D.

But as I turn to make my escape, a hand clamps down on my shoulder.

A voice, thick with a Russian accent, growls in my ear. "Ah, little mouse. You should not stick your nose where it does not belong."

Well, call me a cocksucker.

I react on instinct, driving my elbow back hard. It connects with something soft, and the grip on my shoulder loosens. I spin, my fist already flying.

The guy staggers back, blood pouring from his nose. He's reaching for something in his jacket. Fuck .

I lunge forward, grabbing his arm before he can pull the gun. We grapple, his size giving him the advantage. My back slams against the dumpster, knocking the wind out of me.

" Suka ," he spits, his face inches from mine.

I bring my knee up hard, right between his legs. He doubles over with a grunt. I grab a fistful of his hair, slamming his head against the dumpster once, twice.

He goes limp, sliding to the ground.

I'm breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Shit. Shit. I need to move.

I grab the guy's gun, tucking it into my waistband alongside my own. Can never have too many guns in a situation like this.

Footsteps. Coming this way. Fuck.

I look around frantically. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

The footsteps are getting closer. Any second now, they'll round the corner, and— My phone vibrates, the fucking thing practically screaming in my pocket.

One thing horror movies got right—putting your phone on vibrate is about as stealthy as a fart in church. Real fucking helpful right now; thanks, Hollywood.

" Chto eto bylo ?" one of the goons asks.

What's that? That's my fucking phone, genius.

I fumble with my phone, trying to silence it. My hands are shaking, slick with sweat or blood, or both.

A shadow falls across the alley. I look up, right into the barrel of a gun.

" Dobroye utro, devushka ," the man says, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

"Well, it's sure as hell not morning," I spit back, rolling my eyes. "But good morning to you, too, asshole." I raise my hands slowly, my mind racing. How the fuck am I going to get out of this one?

The man gestures with his gun. "Turn around. Slowly."

I comply, my muscles tensed, ready to move. Just need an opening, a distraction, anything.

He looks down at his unconscious comrade, then back at me. His eyes narrow. "You're going to regret that, suka ."

I meet his gaze, forcing a smirk. "Wouldn't be the first time I've made someone regret something."