Dmitry's Redemption: Book One (The Medlov Men 7)

by Latrivia Welch

  Marat followed shortly behind. “Be advised, we are exiting the hospital room. Bring the vehicles to the front door. Over.”

  A voice quickly responded, “Copy.”

  As the family entered the hallway passed the guards standing at the door, they found Anatoly pacing impatiently back and forth. He halted in his tracks when he saw Anil. Walking over to him, he grabbed his arm and pulled him in close. Patting him roughly on the back, he whispered to him. “Now you live for you, eh.” He stepped back and nodded at his little brother, still covered in tears.

  Anil sniffled but stood up straighter. “Yeah. It’s not like I have much choice, right?”

  “They are ready for you, boss,” Marat announced when the guard over his earpiece confirmed their position in front of the clinic.

  The entire family headed down the long hallway to the lobby of the clinic where more guards were waiting to escort them outside. As they opened the glass double doors that led out to the convoy of SUVs, Dmitry grabbed Royal’s wrist and made her slow down.

  “What?” Royal asked, still hurt from their fight the night before.

  “Thank you for today,” Dmitry said sincerely. “I really appreciate it.”

  Royal blinked fast. “You’re welcome, but it wasn’t for you. It was for Anil.”

  Dmitry grinned. “I know, but I’m still the one thanking you.” He knew she was pissed. He could see it in her eyes and her stance. But if given the opportunity tonight, he would happily make it up to her. A smile crept across his lips.

  “Don’t,” Royal seethed. Pulling away, she trotted through the double doors toward their vehicle.

  Dmitry was only a few steps behind her. “Don’t what?” he asked, sure he was aggravating his wife but determined to get on her good side.

  “Don’t try to get in my good graces,” she said over her shoulder as they stepped out into the blaring sunlight. A fleeting glance caught Anil getting into the back of the SUV just in front of their own. As the guard closed the door for him, she turned to her husband now that she was sure Anil was out of ear range. “Would it kill you not to make today about yourself?” The abstentious diamond necklace around her neck gleamed against the sunlight, reflecting like a star off her body.

  “As a matter of fact, it just might,” Dmitry quipped. With a smile on his face, he was suddenly jolted backward onto the ground as a large boom echoed through the air. Grabbing his chest, he felt the bullet exit out of his back and heard it as it penetrated the reinforced glass entry landing squarely in the back of an old man in a wheelchair passing through the lobby.

  “Oh my God!” Royal screamed, running in six-inch heels toward him as their guards returned fire in the direction the shot had come from.

  Instinctively, she tried to cover Dmitry’s body with her own, but Dmitry quickly snatched her out of the line of fire and rolled over to shield her body with his. Blood dripped over her face as bullets whizzed over her husband’s head.

  “Don’t. Move.” Dmitry looked into his wife’s eyes without blinking. Determined to keep her safe, even if it meant his own death, he used his large back as a shield until another bullet caught him from behind.

  “Dmitry!” Royal screamed, voice breaking as she tried to hold on to her husband. He rolled over, despite every effort to keep her safe. Gazing at her one last time before he passed out, his eyes finally closed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Faith Baptist Hospice Center

  Downtown Memphis

  “D own, down, down!” a black-suited Medlov guard screamed to the top of his lungs as he sprinted across the black asphalt. His loud Russian baritone voice was drowned out by the tornado of chaos around him, but still, he tried to warn helpless civilians caught in the crossfire – even rushing one elderly woman to the ground beside her late-model Lincoln Continental and covering her frail body with his own to protect her from being shot. With his hands over her perfectly quaffed wig, he felt the hair on his arms stand up.

  What the fuck!

  On an otherwise, calm weekday afternoon in downtown Memphis where nothing ever happened, especially in this white-washed district of gentrification, utter mayhem had erupted on the Faith Baptist Hospice Center’s visitor parking lot with the shooting of Russian mafia crime boss, Dmitry Medlov in broad daylight.

  The distinct prattle of multiple automatic weapons returning fire in rapid succession toward the threat in a thicket of trees across the street could be heard for miles around. On site, the security – a team of retired police and military personnel who had taken the job because of its low conflict level - had already hid, seeking shelter from the attack in closets and rooms where they were certain to outlive the unornate targets.

  But at ground zero, where most other paid security would have run, the collective Medlov guard had been taught differently. Even under the threat of being imprisoned or murdered, they stood loyally protecting their liege and his wife without any thought of personal preservation.

  “I’m out!” a Medlov guard screamed, dropping his weapon and pulling a large blade from its sheath attached to his lower back. He would not leave this world without a fight today. Crouched beside a baby-blue jaguar, he ducked as a bullet shot out the windows above him and penetrated the white leather interior. “I’m out. I’m out!” he screamed again, waiting for someone to throw him another mag.

  “Stay down!” Anatoly ordered, calculating his next move while counting each shot from across the street. So far, he had counted exactly thirty- an act of desperation. It was clear they were dealing with a lone assassin because of the fixed trajectory of the bullets, but the number of bullets used was what baffled him. So far, that was three mags in a row. Either the person paid to kill his father was an amateur or rusty - either way, he was grateful. Anyone who had gotten a clear shot without his team expecting the attack, would have been able to kill Dmitry with one bullet.

  What had happened?

  Several streets over, people stepped outside of their businesses and restaurants, phones pressed to their ears as they spoke with dispatch, reporting the sounds of what seemed to be a domestic terrorist attack. Thoughts of what had happened in Florida and Las Vegas clouded their minds. Some covered their mouths in disbelief and mumbled quiet prayers, while others pointed their cell phones toward the sound of the attack to record the smoke rising on the horizon.

  Closer to the hailstorm of bullets, unsuspecting cars with their music blasting loudly moved blindly toward the violent exchange and suddenly hit their breaks abruptly when they realized the danger. Flee-or -Fight took over. It was the crack of the bullets that caught their attention, rendering them either paralyzed or hypervigilant. Those who could react burned rubber on the road and shifted gears to make a U-turn to flee from danger. Others hit the brakes and sat idle, watching the atrocity unfold.

  Screams from startled runners and bike riders could be heard as they bolted from the bike lane to take cover behind random cars or to run into local buildings warning owners to call the police. No one was safe, and no one could believe their eyes – except the intended receivers.

  Yet again, the Medlov family – unlucky as they were - found themselves at the center of a videogame-like attack with no choice but to stand their ground and fight or die.

  Sweat from 100-degree weather poured down Royal’s face, ruining flawless makeup and blotting her view. With her long skirt hitched up where her ample, white-laced backside was exposed for all to see, she reached out toward the giant who had protected her for over a decade.

  Fingers trembling as they extended toward him, she begged, “Baby, hold on! Do you hear me? Hold on!” Crimson-red blood from his wound saturated the ground beneath him, threatening to pool over to her. But Royal would not look directly at the blood – it was too much of a declaration of his demise. Not like this, she kept saying to herself repeatedly. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that Dmitry Medlov was dead. After all they had been through, there was no way, he would die in a parking lot of a hospice fac
ility in Memphis-fucking-TN. This could not be his end. It was too beneath him!

  “Dmitry!” she screamed to keep his eyes focused on her and not the abyss that begged to drag him under. Her voice quivered. “Don’t you dare give up on me!” It was more of a demand than a plea. She made her body scoot close enough to him to cover his vital organs from being hit again. The thick blood transferred to her clothes and mingled in her hair. “We’re going to get you help,” she promised, wondering if it were smarter to get him back inside the building. Surely, the doctor could help him. But even as she thought of how to help him, conspiracy theories were already forming in the back of her hysterical mind – Who all was in on this? Could the doctor be trusted? Was the nurse Anatoly singled out a part of this?

  Shoving him violently, Royal laid flat on the ground beside Dmitry with tears in her eyes. But she wouldn’t cry. There was no time for that. She had to figure out how to get him out of this place first.

  It was the fear in Royal’s voice that jolted Dmitry into a lucid state again. There was no possible way for him to leave her alone like this. He had to dig down deep and find the strength to hold on long enough to get his wife to safety – that was his responsibility, his alone. As he tried to inhale a breath, he felt a rattle in his chest indicating the possibility that his lungs had been hit. Straining, he glared at his wife. Shit! What had he gotten her into?

  The bullets that whizzed above him were nearly silent, the world moving so slow until he could feel the slightest change in temperature as a few patchy clouds moved into the view of the sun.

  Though his body was locked in a downward position, he tried to conserve his energy for just the right moment. Moving his lips, without words forming, he felt spittle slide from the corner. “Protect…” he managed to speak, below a whisper.

  “I’ll protect you,” Royal answered, misunderstanding his meaning.

  Dmitry swallowed hard. “I have to protect you.” His eyes followed the movements behind Royal as guards ran back and forth.

  Move, Royal commanded herself quietly. MOVE NOW! This was not the first time that she had faced mortal danger, yet her body seemed to try to freeze in place. Mind over matter, she willed herself to denounce the fear. God, give me strength, she prayed desperately. With all the wrong she had done in her life, it was quite possible she wasn’t worthy of a prayer, but she wasn’t worry about herself, she was worried about her husband.

  As a Medlov bodyguard darted behind a concrete wall directly across from Royal and Dmitry, he dropped his empty mag on the ground and reloaded quickly. Without fear despite their situation, he glanced over at Royal and motioned with his right hand for her to stay down. “Don’t worry,” he reassured. “We’re going to get you out of here.” But as he racked his weapon, the sniper’s aim suddenly hit him in the back of the head blowing out the front of his skull. Blood splattered across the wall and the side of Royal’s face as the guard’s body flew forward. He didn’t even know what had hit him.

  Eyeing the gun that had slid out of the guard’s hand and stopped only inches away from her, Royal had a thought of a different kind.

  Bandi was pissed!

  If it had not been for Dmitry’s wife’s gawdy diamond necklace blinding him suddenly, his mark would be dead right now and he’d be miles away preparing for extraction. Instead, Dmitry Medlov, only grazed by his first attempt, had fallen back after being shot in such a manner that his large body was covered by the angle of the SUV parked in front of the building.

  The only clear shot Bandi had now was of Royal Medlov lying awkwardly on the ground with her skirts pulled up where he could see the heart shaped curve of her ass through her white lace panties, but as vulnerable as the queen of the underworld was, he had not been paid by Popov to kill her. And since he never killed for fun, he could not bring himself to end her life, even if she was the cause of his mishap.

  “Fuck!” Bandi hissed under his breath, reloading with the second to the last mag in his pack, he heaved a frustrated growl.

  The window to complete his mission was closing with each second that passed, and it was possible that his exact location, a perch high on the limb of an oak tree, would be discovered at any moment.

  “I’m a professional, dammit,” he berated himself. “I can do this!”

  But could he really?

  Sweat poured down his face from the hot sun and the torturous Memphis humidity. How did people live in this shit? Mosquitos had assailed him for hours, sucking him nearly bone dry, while he baked in the sweltering heat waiting for Dmitry Medlov to emerge from the complex. He would have killed him on the way in to the center, but he was blocked, which appeared to be his son.

  Counting the men who seemed to multiply in front of his very eyes, he tried to pick them one-by-one in hopes of getting one final chance to take out Dmitry Medlov, because as his handler had already stressed, there would only be one chance at this.

  Anatoly led the charge about twenty feet from his father’s reach, urging his men to advance. After pulling an Ash-12 urban assault rifle from the back of one of the vehicles, he took position behind a black Cadillac parked closer to the road and started to send rapid fire into the tree line.

  “Shit!” Bandi ducked, feeling the cloud of random bullets assail his position. Miraculously, none had hit him so far, but luck only lasted so long. He held his rifle carefully, exhaling before he took aim again, this time hitting another nameless bodyguard who threatened to approach.

  A thought crossed his mind. Erik Popov was a cheap fuck. He could have hired five guys to complete this mission, but he was too fragile. Instead, Erik placed this entire responsibility on Bandi’s head, praying that he’d be able to follow through. A man like that didn’t deserve to lead, but greed had put him on this path, and now he had no choice but to succeed or die. Fucker!

  Even though the world was burning down around them in real time, it had halted to a complete stop for Royal and Dmitry. What had started off as a sad day had turned into a nightmare in the blink of an eye. Royal didn’t know where Anil was, where anyone was.

  When the bullet first knocked Dmitry down, her first thought was to panic for her children, but thank God, Anatoly had sent them home an hour ago. Still, the mother in her went straight to that concern. The next thought was not for herself, but for Dmitry.

  Now, things were happening at hyper speed, making it nearly impossible to think at all.

  Slowly, she turned her head and looked at her husband. His suntanned face had gone pale and his head pressed against the concrete. Even though his shirt was covered in blood, she could still see him breathing. His massive chest heaved painful breaths, fighting to pump blood to all his organs, and in that moment, she prayed if he had to go, God would be merciful enough to take her as well. What was life without her soulmate?

  But it was too early for a defeat us attitude. “Don’t leave me,” Royal begged, frantic to get him some help. “We’ve come too far to end now.” Tears mingled with snot from her nose and hot sweat pouring from her forehead. Shifting her head back around, she looked at the gun again. She licked her lips and sniffled.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, taking a deep breath.

  Pulling the weapon to her – the scrape of the steel squealing across the concrete, she rolled over in her white dovetail tulle skirt with her back against the ground and looked up at the off-white aluminum awning where a large, black widow spider weaving an elaborate tapestry. Funny, even in this chaos, some life went uninterrupted. If they died right now, that stupid spider would not care. It would go on about its job. Somehow that pissed Royal off.

  “Fuck it. I’m not going to lay here and die like a coward.” Taking a deep breath, she finally sat up, gun clutched to her chest and then stood to her feet. The hard part was over. Now that she was vertical again, the blood started pumping. Adrenaline rushed through her body – urging her forward. In her redback white-strapped heels, she stepped toward the direction she thought the shots were coming from and aimed her
weapon.

  “No!” Dmitry moaned, reaching toward her. “Royal, stop!” He coughed, trying to pull himself up.

  Hot winds blew through Royal’s disheveled hair, half-pull down from its bun with crazy strands flying behind her. After years of being around military-grade weapons, she knew how to handle herself. She cocked the weapon and said a silent prayer. “Lord, let me aim straight.”

  “On my mark,” Anatoly said, unaware that Royal was approaching from behind him. Hot winds grazed his sweaty face and dripped down his blonde beard. Rising up from behind the car, he returned fire again with his men following. “One…Twooo…”

  Royal let her weapon rip, jumping the count down. With elbows into her body like Dmitry had taught her and eyes focused on her sights, she unleashed the entire clip toward their anonymous assassin. And without her knowledge, one came extremely close to hitting him. It flew just a centimeter over his head.

  “Shit!” Bandi shouted, ducking from danger. “Fucking bitch!” In an instant, his previous decision not to harm Royal suddenly changed. But as he prepared to take aim at the woman, something incredible happened.

  Out of sympathy, most of the other guards returned fire when Royal did instead of waiting for Anatoly’s signal. Her rallying cry of courage reverberated through all the men. If the queen was willing to fight, so were they!

  She came from behind them, rifle pressed into her right slender shoulder, shell casings flying out of the weapon at a dizzying speed and landing on the black pavement below. With a battle yell akin to warriors of old, she showed no fear as she advanced, determined to run the sniper off and keep him away from her husband. Her soft skirt flapped in the wind flashing her long, brown, voluptuous legs. Her hair danced around her angelic brown face and down her back. But as demure and beautiful as she was, there was nothing nice about her at this moment.