The Enforcer

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Oleg

I don’t have a way to get home. I could text one of the guys in my cell, but it’s almost four in the morning.

I could use a ride-sharing app, but it would mean interacting with another person—something I loathe. I decide to walk. It’s only a few miles. It’s freezing out, but I’m from Russia. Cold doesn’t bother me, especially when I could use the temperature to cool down after what just happened.

Story’s vanilla-sweet scent still lingers on my shirt.

I zip my leather jacket and shove my hands in my pockets. My mind is still filled with images of Story getting off under my hands. It was the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. Like that first hit of a d**g, I’m now utterly addicted. I don’t know how I’ll wait a full week to see her again. How I’ll settle for just watching now that I’ve touched her.

But I’m not stupid enough to think I can have Story.

Keep Story.

I am a man with a very dangerous past. A past that could catch up with him at any time. One that would hurt the people I’ve come to care about—my bratva brothers—and will likely mean the end of my life.

I’m not safe for Story, even if I was lucky enough for her to want someone as broken as I am.

I back the memories up to the moment I got in the van with her, wanting to replay every minute we were together. The indulgence costs me.

Dearly.

Because I don’t notice anyone else around.

Pain explodes on the back of my head as I’m clubbed from behind. A bag gets pulled over my face as I topple forward, landing heavily on one knee. I try to rip it off, to see my attackers, but the blow to my skull disorients me, and I tumble to my side before I yank it away.

The cold metal of a g*n presses against my temple. “Don’t move.” The words are Russian.

Blyad'.

They found me.

I always knew this day would come. I knew it, but to have it happen tonight—the night I got to watch my little lastochka come—makes it a special t*****e. The night I’m given a burning reason to live.

“Get up,” a different voice rasps.

“You want him not to move or to get up?” a third voice argues. “He doesn’t look that smart. Why confuse the guy?”

Yeah, every mudak thinks he’s a comedian.

Several thoughts snap together in my brain. If they wanted me dead—if they worked for Skal'pel'—I’d already be dead. So that means these idiots work for someone who’s after Skal'pel'. Someone who wants what’s in my head. Which means they have orders to take me alive.

The c***k I took to the skull makes it hard to focus, but I’m a big guy. I can still throw my weight. I stand, launching myself backward into the guy holding the g*n. As I predicted, he doesn’t shoot.

I knock him on his back, my weight landing square in his middle. His g*n arm splays out to the side, but I miss snatching the pistol before it clatters to the ground out of reach.

I rip the hood off my head and turn to punch him in the face to make sure he stays down then go for the g*n. Too late—it has already been scooped up by Mudak #2.

“Shoot him in the kneecap!” Mudak #3—the comedian—suggests. These guys would never make it anywhere in Ravil’s cell. They lack the organization and discipline of bratva. And intelligence.

Mudak #2 does try to shoot me in the f*****g knee. My fist hits his throat at the same time he pulls the trigger. The bullet grazes my leg. At least I hope that’s just a graze. I feel a burning line all along my outer thigh.

The g*n clatters to the ground.

Lights come on from the windows in the buildings all around us. Someone shouts down that he’s called the police.

“What in the f**k are you doing?” Mudak #1 is conscious again. “You’re not supposed to shoot him.”

I’m still trying to get to the g*n—a mistake—when I feel a sharp jab to the back of my neck.

A f*****g needle!

They tranqued me. I have to work fast. I spin and backhand Mudak #1 in the temple. He staggers, and I punch his mouth with my left fist, then his nose with my right, then his jaw with the left again, and he’s down.

The world is already starting to spin. I can’t tell if it’s because of the head injury or the drugs or both. I have to get away before I black out.

I forget about the g*n and my aspirations of eliminating these guys. The cops are on their way, and there’re a few dozen witnesses looking through their windows now. The two upright assholes try to wrestle me to the ground at the same time, which gives me the advantage. I hook the throat of one of them with my hand and spin him around to knock the head with the other guy. Four more punches, and they’re on the sidewalk.

My vision’s fading around the edges. I stagger, limp-running in the direction of Story’s building. I won’t make it, though. I just need to find a place to hide before I pass out. Before the cops arrive.

Are those sirens?

My vision has streaks in it. I can’t focus. I stumble and fall against something. A car.

No, a van.

Fuck, it’s the van. Could it be Story’s van?

I fumble with the back door, but my fingers don’t work.

Or maybe it’s because it’s locked.

No, my fingers work now. The door opens. I was an i***t for not making sure it was locked when we got here. The inside is packed with amps and speakers. The sound system. Story’s guitar. I don’t even know how it’s possible I found the van.

The miracle that it would be unlocked. There’s no room—especially not for a big guy like me, but I climb in anyway.

I’m not sure if I make it all the way in. I definitely don’t get the door closed. I pass out, face down over the speakers, my head splitting with pain.