Bratva King (Koalistia Bratva 5)

5

Dmitry

“They’re on you right now?” Shura’s voice sounded down the other end of the line, his words clipped and almost hostile, but I didn’t let it get to me.

I knew that he was upset at being forced to stay behind, but I knew that I could handle myself. It was Manya I was worried about.

“Da.” I said, crossing the marbled floor of the shopping center. “Looks like no more than four, maybe five. They came in two cars.” I walked with the cell phone lifted to my ear in an inconspicuous manner. I sounded as bored as I looked, a carefully calculated rouse, knowing I was being watched. Knowing that I was being followed.

They had been sloppy; given their title, it made me all the more upset with them. These pretenders. They wore Italian ink, pledged to Italian families, and then allowed themselves to be bought from warring factions all for the promise of a cash flow that would never fully materialize, much less make good on its debts. Even the men that I had dealt with yesterday had expressed their thoughts on as much, and not just because of the pliers clamped around their tongues.

I knew, right now, the Bratva members embroiled in this plot were also being handled—by men that I could trust. Those very same men who had watched the day before as I ended the life of those whom my father had wrongfully trusted.

I knew, as I headed for the exit, that I’d need to take out these tailing men for their boss to emerge from his hiding place.

“No more than four, maybe five,” Shura snorted. “Which is it, Dmitry? Four or five? You must know these things before you count bullets.” He lectured me like a child late for his dinner time, his voice dismissive. Again, I knew it was from worry. My strides grew wider as I sensed the tailers closing in.

“Da, and you must remember, Shura, that I am not only Dmitry. I am your Pakhan.” My irritation bled into my words. I was far too worked up to stop it.

His short bark of laughter was anything but amused, the sniff that came after it letting me know he had lit another cigar. “Nyet, that is only if you live,” he mumbled. “And if you live, then you must be named, and if you are named then I will kiss your ring and call you my Pakhan, goddamnit.” His voice came through clearly once more as he spoke more directly into the speaker, the ire in his tone not lost on me. “Until then, you are Dmitry. Dmitry and the stupid arrogance that might get him killed.”

I was approaching the parking garage. The men increased their pace behind me. Good, this meant that the location the men from yesterday had given me wasn’t bullshit. Why the Italians had chosen to wait in a parking garage was beyond me though.A quick exit if things were to go wrong?

“Have faith, brother,” I breathed into the phone, jogging through the entrance of the parking garage. “I go to test my own.”

I hung up and pocketed the phone before ducking between the cement pillars. I had, if I was lucky, maybe three minutes to get to the dark car on the other side of the garage before it started up and the bitch in it ran.

I wasn’t lucky.

I felt the bulky hand close over my shoulder. With a snarl I turned, driving my knife through the wrist of the hulking Italian in front of me. As I did so, I heard an engine rumbling through the otherwise quiet parking garage. Shit.

The man behind the first had his phone to his ear, his gun drawn, and I had to use my other hand to draw my own, firing before he could pull the trigger.

The squealing of tires covered the screams and the gunshots, the foul smell of burnt rubber like a noxious cloud in the air. I twisted the knife through the wrist of the man it held, pulling him closer to me for cover, and pushing the barrel of my gun against his temple before pulling the trigger again. The blood spray I could ignore . . .

It was the car speeding off toward the other exit that I couldn’t. I lifted my arm, realigning my body, and depressed the trigger again. I watched that burning rubber burst from the impact of the bullet. The vehicle sagged forwards on its front right tire. But before I could witness the fallout, a new man came running at me wielding what looked like a cleaver.

Him I shot too.

Bullets were easy.

I’d never understood anyone’s fascination with trying to avoid them when killing. You aimed, you shot, the life was lost. It was less messy, less time consuming, and took just as much skill as wielding a blade. It also made it much easier for me to shoot the next three men that came rushing at me . . .

And the back left tire of the vehicle still trying to escape.

Metal clanged against the concrete, and the sound of the rim buckling was like music to my ears. I couldn’t see the occupant behind the tinted windows, but I could see the bullets flying like a spray from the front seat.

I had yet to drop the man who had grabbed me upon entering, hauling his lifeless dead body in front of my own and advancing towards the car. The sound of audible, accented cursing could now be heard from within.

The door opened with a pop, and a knife flew by the side of my face in place of a bullet, so close I swore I could feel the blade nick my cheek. I knew, from the number of bullets that I heard, that he was out. I could hear the hastily scrambled rush to get a new clip in before I reached the car, and the preparation in case he didn’t.

But I didn’t care.

The dead body dropped from my grip only once my hip was level with the open door of the vehicle. Before he could so much as finish loading his clip, my gun was raised for his head.

I didn’t account for the knife though.

I felt the switchblade slide into my stomach like a burning, serrated edge. He pushed it till the hilt stuck against my abs, until that expression of concentration turned to one of victory. I could see the relief in his eyes, the gleam of satisfaction from what he thought was a kill gone well.