Sons of Anarchy Bratva

by Christopher Golden

  The question made her want to scream, but worse than that was the idea that whatever harm, whatever obscenity might be perpetrated upon her, it would be to use her as a tool, a message, an example. If she was going to die like this, she wanted it to be because of things she’d done, not whom she was sleeping with.

  Keeping low, she rushed along behind the counter and then popped her head up. Through the plate-glass windows, she could see a massive black SUV and a charcoal-gray sedan, but they were off to the right. Men were standing behind them, but she was in the shadows, and she thought they might not see her. A pair of gunmen ran from the sedan to circle around the hotel. She waited, holding her breath while they passed, and then she was up and over the counter.

  Trinity hit the floor in a tumble, came up on one knee and glanced at the windows again. How many cars, how many men? It didn’t matter, really. The answer was too many.

  She bolted, willing them not to see her. She expected shouting and gunshots, but then she darted into the corridor, felt the crunch of crusty old carpet under her boots, and knew she was clear.

  Gun.

  It was the only word in her head. Her right hand clenched and unclenched, yearning for the weight of a weapon. Guns are hateful things, Maureen Ashby had always said to young Trinity, but remember, love, that bullets are like presents—better to give than receive. It was how Maureen had justified so much of the family’s violence.

  Trinity reached her room, twisted the knob, slipped inside without banging the door. Her gun was where she’d left it, top shelf of the closet underneath a leather jacket she’d had no use for since they’d arrived in Vegas. Loaded, always.

  She was out in the corridor in a handful of heartbeats, glancing both ways. Slipping into the hallway, she heard glass shatter in the lobby, and suddenly her options had narrowed. Lagoshin’s men were coming in. They’d search the hotel. Trinity couldn’t shoot her way out, which meant the only question that mattered was: Where could she hide? Where could she tuck herself away and still have an exit strategy?

  Elevator shaft? The doors were wedged open, and she could get in, maybe drop down to the elevator itself, hide in the dark. But where the hell could she run from there?

  Walk-in freezer in the kitchen? Dead end. As was every bathroom and guest room, all of which they’d search. Doors banged open. She heard wood splinter.

  Upstairs.

  She bolted past the alcove with the ice machine and a dusty-faced Coke machine. A voice shouted in Russian, profanity that she’d become more than familiar with. Trinity glanced to her left, saw the window and the tree beyond it—saw the Bratva killer beyond the tree and the way he stared. He pointed at the window, at her, shouting, and all choice had been taken from her. She ran to the z junction in the hallway, jogged right, hidden from all eyes, and then shoved through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  Service stairs.

  Exhaling, she ran, hating even the quiet scuffing of her boots on the steps. Second floor. Third floor. So much for her one asset, them not knowing she was there.

  A small door—strangely small—on the third floor landing of the service stairs. She tried the latch and blinked in surprise when it opened. Gray light filtered through some kind of venting at the top of the stairwell, and a fraction of it came down inside the room on the other side of that door.

  Not a room. A shaft. Service elevator.

  Jamming her gun into the waistband of her jeans, Trinity climbed into that near darkness. Dusty metal rungs ran up and down the interior wall, just to her right, and she grabbed hold, reached out, and pulled the small door closed.

  Up was the only option. Not a good one, but there were no good options here.

  The metal rungs were cold to the touch. She moved fast, the gun jamming into her with every step. Fourth floor. Fifth floor, and it was taking too long. They’d be searching everywhere by now. Banging open doors and looking under beds.

  Top of the shaft, beneath the mechanisms of the elevator and the vents that let in that dim gray light, she felt around and found a latch—another small door. She twisted it, put her weight into it, and the metal screeched as she forced it open. Blinking against the bright sunlight, she poured herself through the tiny door and found herself in a small alcove on the roof. Tucked between the elevator housing and the angled structure where the service stairs exited the roof, she was hidden from sight on three sides.

  The sun had been cooking the top of the building for hours, and the heat baked up from every surface. Still, she took a moment to breathe. Hidden there, she felt as if she could just wait for help to arrive or for the intruders to give up and leave. If she hadn’t been seen, she might have been able to do just that.

  But she had been seen. They knew she was in the building, and it wouldn’t be long before one of them came up to search the roof. When that happened, the alcove would not keep her hidden … it would keep her cornered.

  She drew her gun and stepped from the alcove, glanced around and then hurried toward the front of the building.

  The Wonderland Hotel varied in height from back to front. At the edge of the rearmost section, Trinity stared down along the Spanish tiles that sloped to the third floor and wondered if she could scramble down them without falling. From there, she could drop down on top of the portico breezeway at the front, where cars had once pulled up so bellmen could take their luggage. If she was quiet … if she was careful to wait until nobody was in sight … she might make it to one of their cars. Were any of the engines still running?

  Don’t think—move!

  Carefully, she put one tentative foot on the sloping tiles, then realized that she needed to sit—to slide down instead of trying to stay on her feet. It might make more noise, but there was less chance of dying in the attempt.

  “Okay,” she said quietly.

  Then she heard the engines. The low rumble of an approaching car. The grinding, growling roar of a couple of Harley-Davidsons.

  Hope flickered inside her, and she glanced up. Four cars and two motorcycles. Her boys would be outnumbered, but they were coming. She didn’t even need to warn them because they’d see the cars out front.

  The service door clanged open behind her.

  Trinity’s heart went still. Her grip on the gun tightened and she spun around, taking aim even as she did so. The blond guy who’d come out onto the roof hadn’t really expected to find her there, so he wasted a couple of seconds blinking at the sudden reality of her presence before he swung his gun toward her.

  She pulled the trigger three times and managed to shoot him once, in the left leg. The sound of the bullet tearing wetly into flesh made her feel sick. The pain and the impact toppled him sideways, and he slammed to the roof with a grunt. His gun flew from his fingers and skittered a few feet from him. Wounded, trailing blood, he scrabbled toward the gun, calling her bitch, whore, and worse in his own language—why had she only learned the ugly words?

  Trinity dashed toward him, gripping her gun in both hands, and aimed it at his head.

  “Another inch and you die now,” she said, with a ferocity she promised herself she didn’t really feel. She wasn’t really like that, didn’t have the savagery inside that her bloodline on both sides would suggest. Just as she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t really have taken out Luka’s eye with a knife. This isn’t me, she thought.

  He moved and she pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the roof inches from his shoulder, threw up divots of concrete. The blond Russian hesitated, glancing at her. Trinity stepped closer.

  “We’re just gonna stay right here until it’s over,” she told him.

  He sagged, seemed to give up, and then he planted his hands on the roof and swung his good leg out, struck her calves, and swept her off her feet. Trinity fell on her hip and smashed an elbow on the roof, but she did not let go of the gun. Blondie snagged her ankle, and only then did she see the knife that had appeared in his right hand.

  The blade came down, and the gleaming steel bit into
her left thigh.

  Trinity screamed. Then she shot him in the face.

  * * *

  Jax clutched his cell phone. “You see this?”

  Ilia responded, but Jax hadn’t been speaking to the Russian behind the wheel. He had Kirill on the line, and the Bratva captain started talking fast, his clipped tones blocking out anything Ilia might have said.

  “Done,” Jax said, tossing the phone to the floor.

  He picked up his gun as the car roared toward the Wonderland Hotel. The mountains wavered in the heat-hazed distance, but his focus was on the figures moving around the edges of the hotel. Someone darted out from behind the building, saw the cars and Harleys coming, and then vanished again. In front of the hotel, a pair of figures stood in front of the black Escalade with guns strapped across their backs, and Jax felt his insides freeze. Assault rifles. His 9mm handgun had stopping power, but not if he never got a chance to use it. And he’d never reach the fancy Russian AR that Oleg had given him before the enemy opened fire.

  “Kirill says we take the back,” Jax said, raising his voice to be heard over the engine’s roar. “They’ve got the front.”

  Oleg slapped his hand on the driver’s headrest. “You heard him. Go!”

  Ilia twisted the wheel to the right, ignoring the parking lot. Ilia steered them into a delivery lane, rear wheels slewing and screeching on pavement. Jax saw movement in the backseat and glanced over to see Oleg pulling a new Kalashnikov AK-12 from under the seat. It gleamed, even newer than the one Jax had left in the trunk.

  “Where the hell’d you get that?” he asked. “I didn’t think they’d made more than the prototypes for it.”

  “This is a prototype,” Oleg said. “Call this a field test.”

  The men by the Escalade opened fire. Bullets tore up the street and the burnt grass beside the hotel. Ilia and Oleg ducked, and the rear passenger window blew in, tiny bits of glass spraying all over the interior. Jax watched the other three cars race toward the hotel, the Mercedes turning into the circular drive as bullets strafed it. The RAV4 slid past. Guns thrust from windows spat bullets rapid-fire, but the RAV4 wasn’t stopping or slowing. It sailed by and turned, heading for the other side of the building.

  Jax worried about Chibs and Opie, glanced back and saw that they’d turned to follow him, Oleg, and Ilia. The Harleys roared up beside them, using the car as a shield. Smart. Stay alive, he thought.

  Oleg shoved the AK-12’s nose out the window and opened fire, strafing the Escalade. One of the men stood his ground and fired back, but the other ran for cover, trying to get behind the giant SUV. The Mercedes—with Gavril at the wheel and Kirill firing out the window—slammed into the man and then into the Escalade, sandwiching him between the two vehicles in a scream of metal and human anguish.

  Then they were alongside the hotel and out of sight of the melee out front.

  “Here we go,” Ilia said, cutting the wheel to the left as they turned, skidding around the corner. The fence around the empty swimming pool loomed ahead.

  “Kitchen door,” Oleg said. “Close as you can.”

  Ilia said nothing, only nodded grimly.

  Jax felt a dreadful calm descend upon him. The job was killing. The path from here to the other side of this chaos would be one of unhesitating bloodshed. He’d been down this path before.

  His jaw tightened. His heart calmed. The car skidded to a halt. Jax was out the door before Ilia had a chance to throw it into park. Cold inside, he felt the sun baking his skin. The world seemed to shift into lower gear. He called for Ilia to open the trunk and was headed around the back of the car when he saw one of Lagoshin’s men come around the side of the Dumpster, tall and pale with thinning hair and pockmarked skin. Jax shot him twice. The man pulled his own trigger as he went down, blowing in the Audi’s windshield and putting a bullet so close to Jax that it zipped over his left shoulder.

  Jax glanced down, saw the furrow in the fabric of his shirt, saw the blood welling and soaking into the fabric, and realized the furrow had been dug not just in cloth but in skin.

  He bled, and he moved, running to the trunk. He jammed his handgun into his waistband and pulled the assault rifle Oleg had given him out of the trunk. Then he ran for the hotel.

  Ilia and Oleg were ahead of him, yanking open the kitchen door, whose frame had already been shattered by the intruders. Motion in his peripheral vision made him glance left, and he saw Opie and Chibs running toward him, and suddenly he woke from the strange, dreamlike feeling that had enveloped him. He felt the searing pain of his wound and smelled the copper of his own blood and the smell of cordite.

  “You all right?” Opie asked, in that familiar gravel voice. He’d turned a little pale, seemed to be favoring his left side where the bullet had grazed him, but it didn’t appear that he’d started bleeding again.

  Chibs went to the door but hesitated to follow the Russians inside, waiting for them.

  Jax still felt calm, focused, but a new confidence made him exhale. He was with his brothers. They would prevail.

  “Let’s go,” he said, suddenly hating the weight of the assault rifle. It would help even the odds, but he’d rather have a handgun any day. More precise. Less unwieldy. “Chibs, check the stairways, top to bottom. Opie and I are going room to room. Take out anyone in your way. If Trinity’s alive, we’re getting her out.”

  “What about Lagoshin?” Opie asked.

  Jax nodded, remembering the beating Lagoshin had given him and the vow he’d made. “Trinity comes first. We stay alive, we can take care of that asshole later.”

  Boots scuffed the ground. They turned to see another Russian coming around the corner beyond the Dumpster. Opie lifted his gun but didn’t need to fire. The Russian threw his arms up as bullets stitched up his back, some of Kirill’s men having come around from the other side.

  Jax tried not to keep count of how many men he saw go down. His side was badly outnumbered, but numbers didn’t tell the whole story. Even so, he was glad to have Rollie and the SAMNOV crew on the way. He just hoped they would hurry.

  Chibs led the way through the kitchen. They spotted Oleg and Ilia for a second, but then there was gunfire in the corridor ahead, and the two Russians raced headlong toward it. Jax pulled the trigger on the TsNIITochMash, and a barrage of bullets burst forth, the silencer muffling the noise. Then he ran on. He wanted to back Oleg and Ilia up, but he had other priorities.

  “Go,” he said to Chibs, who nodded and set off at a run, swinging right and left in search of a stairwell door.

  Jax called his sister’s name in the kitchen. Opie checked the walk-in cooler. Then they went into the corridor and started their search. Room to room, watching each other’s backs as they listened to shouts and gunfire echoing through the hotel.

  “Wonderland,” Opie said, voice dripping with irony. He winced at the pain in his side but said nothing of it.

  Jax didn’t smile. He slammed open a bathroom door and went in, gun ahead of him, calling his sister’s name in a voice that echoed back to him.

  The place sounded hollow. Empty.

  For the first time, he understood that she might already be dead.

  18

  Chibs glided along the corridor, back to the wall. He glanced into a few open doorways, turning and then moving on in fluid motion. His pulse was steady, his breathing calm. During his time as an army medic, one lieutenant had said if they’d monitored his brain waves during combat, the test would show that Chibs was asleep. “Maybe even dreaming.” Every time violence erupted around him, Chibs assumed he was going to die—he just wanted to make the bastards pay before he did.

  When he wasn’t in the field, though … it was then that Chibs had trouble. Under fire, he was calm, but when things were quiet, he could feel old anger simmering inside him. Even now, years later, he spent most days with an electric tension buzzing along his spine. He’d been a man without a country, and the brothers of SAMCRO had opened their arms to him. Without SAMCRO, he had nothin
g.

  Jax had made some questionable choices in the past few days, but Chibs had Jax’s back no matter what, partly because they were both SAMCRO and he loved the man, and partly because he knew that if Trinity was his sister, he’d have made the very same decisions.

  Chibs stopped at the elevator, punched the button to see if it was working. The button didn’t light up, and he put his ear to the metal door. No hum. Boots pounded somewhere upstairs. Gunfire came from the front of the hotel.

  “Behind you,” came a low growl.

  Chibs glanced back. Opie and Jax had turned the corner and were following him at a distance.

  Someone swore in Russian. Chibs whipped around, saw the man who’d come into the hall up ahead, and took aim. He squeezed off two rounds. One caught the Russian in the arm, just a graze, but the man dove around a turn in the corridor ahead.

  “Go, go!” Jax snapped.

  Chibs glanced up, saw the stairwell door to his left, and pushed through. Jax had given him one job, and he intended to do it. As the door swung shut, Chibs glanced back into the hall and saw Opie thundering along with his gun, taking aim. Opie fired, and someone swore. Then the door clicked home, and Chibs was alone.

  On the stairs, the violence sounded muffled, almost distant. Chibs was dead calm. He hustled up the steps, watching and listening for the presence of Lagoshin’s men. Halfway between the third and fourth floor, he paused and listened to the way his heartbeat thumped inside his head. He might be calm under fire, but he hadn’t gotten any younger these past few years. Running up multiple flights of stairs forced him to catch his breath.

  The stairwell had a chalky, dusty smell, with dampness underneath it, like something had crawled behind the wall months ago and died.

  Chibs heard a scuff on the stairs above, just around the corner. A huff of breath, followed by a quiet, very human sound. He thought it was the sound of despair.

  Gun leveled, he turned the corner. “Not a whisper,” he growled, finger applying pressured to the trigger.