Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

Then, he realized that Nevskaya was instead digging into a side pocket.

The world slowed as Dimitri watched his father with an odd detachment.

He knew what the man was searching for. He had similar pockets sewn into his own carriages to make certain he had a loaded pistol conveniently at hand. The streets could be a dangerous place. Who knew when you might have need of a hidden weapon?

His finger tightened on the trigger, but still he hesitated. So far as Dimitri was concerned, his quest to destroy his father was at an end.

What did the past matter when his future promised to be a glorious adventure with Emma Linley-Kirov?

As long as Dimitri made certain that the pasha knew the count was in his country and that he was responsible for the traffickers, eventually his father would be served his just rewards.

But even as he shoved himself toward the far door of the carriage, the count had the gun in his hand and was swinging it in Dimitri’s direction. Dimitri had a brief moment to wryly accept his father had possessed none of his qualms as he swiftly fired a shot, the bullet grazing his already wounded shoulder.

Dimitri instinctively returned fire, his own shot far superior as it hit his father directly in the center of his chest.

It had been years since he had missed his target.

The stench of gunpowder filled the carriage and with a sense of inevitability, Dimitri watched as his father sprawled across the seat, the gun dropping from his lifeless fingers.

He knew that he should feel something.

Triumph. Sorrow. Relief.

Instead, his only thought was that he hoped his newest bullet wound was healed before he reached St. Petersburg. Emma would not be pleased if she discovered he had managed to be shot once again.

His inane musings were interrupted as the door to the carriage was yanked open and Josef stuck his head through the opening, his knife clutched in his hand.

His gaze darted about the carriage, settling on the motionless form of Nevskaya even as he reached down to snatch the pistol from the carriage floor.

“Damn you, Tipova, you nearly frightened me into my grave,” he growled, waving the gun at the count. “Is he…”

“Dead,” Dimitri said in clipped tones, waving his friend from the door so he could climb out of the carriage.

Once he was standing on the street, he sucked in a deep, cleansing breath.

He was vaguely aware of the Arabian jasmine-scented air and the distant passage of guards returning to the citadel, but he paid them no heed.

He was anxious to put the exotic splendor of Egypt behind him.

Moving to his side

, Josef nodded his head toward the carriage.

“What do you want done with the body?”

Dimitri shrugged. “Leave it for the vultures.”

“Fawzi disappeared, of course. Vile little rat,” Josef muttered. “Did you want him tracked down?”

“No, I am done with revenge.”

There was a short silence as Josef studied him with a narrowed gaze.

“Now what?”

“Now, Josef, we go home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT