Pain in his chest made it hard to breathe. Wyatt nodded. “She’s gone to get Alek.”
“Here.” Sloan pointed to the digital blueprints of The Kremlin. “Roof entrance. There’s a helipad up top. Doesn’t look like it’s used. We go in from there.”
“All right.” Wyatt snapped his visor closed. “Let’s go.”
Climbing the side of the building had been no problem with their grappling hooks and retractable rope. Getting through the roof emergency exit door had also been a breeze. It wasn’t until all three of them hit the inside stairwell that Wyatt sensed a rush of wrath burst through the building and mix with another in a deadly cocktail that made him swoon.
He recognized them both. Alek and Dimitri. The dual surge of sin meant only one thing. The two were locked in battle.
“What is it?” Mary said, coming up next to him.
“I know where they are. Alek’s in danger.”
All three of them lifted their scarves to mask their faces and lowered hoods to shield their identities. A steely determination set in their eyes. Sloan released her bow from her back holster and pulled an arrow from the quiver at her thigh. She nocked, pulled taut, held it ready and sighted. Mary drew her knives. Wyatt just went.
The flare of sin came from way down, and he had no time to waste.
Down the dark stairwell and into the thumping base, he dropped, two steps at a time. Saucy electro-jazz music pumped loudly through the club giving their entrance the cover of noise. Whatever happened tonight, there would be collateral damage, but as another burst of sin exploded from deep in the bowels of the basement, a surge of hopelessness flooded him. If he was too late… He pushed on, descending at an alarming speed. Nearly at the next level. Almost there.
If Misha was hurt, and Alek was… no. He could still sense Alek down there. His wrath simmered, providing Wyatt the beacon with which to find them. He hurtled from the stairwell onto the main club floor and stopped.
Despite their intel, despite the satellite heat map showing multiple bodies inside the club—it wasn’t customers and dancers who greeted them. It was Falcon stepping casually his way, dressed head to toe in white, bird mask hiding her face, white bullwhip snapping at her side. Behind her, on the mirrored stage and from the curtained side walls, a white-robed army of Faithful stepped out of the shadows.
A trap.
His stomach dropped out. It was all the evidence he needed to tell him Misha betrayed him. Clear as day. She’d led him there… to his death. His pulse pounded in his ears, roaring while his hot breath pushed at the cloth covering his mouth. Seconds ticked by and neither party moved while he came to terms with the fact his mate had betrayed him.
So why did his heart still pull him toward the basement?
She was his life. He wouldn’t survive without her.
Mary stepped around him and held her throwing knives ready. “We’ve got this, mijo.”
“Go save the princess.” Sloan took up a position behind Mary and aimed into the hoard. The entrance to the basement was just to the right. He’d make it if they provided cover.
Wyatt hesitated. Neither woman had been in the field for months, and neither were bulletproof. Family first, had always been Mary’s motto.
She must have seen the conflict in his eyes.
“Don’t go soft on us now, Wrath.” Mary’s gaze hardened over her blood-red scarf. “We’ll hold them off.”
“I’ll come back.”
“We know.” Sloan fired her arrow into Falcon and then all hell broke loose. But he didn’t stick around to watch. He went down the steps to where he felt Alek’s wrath pull at him, taking him toward the boy like a puppet string to the gut. Taking him to where he hoped Misha still remained unharmed.
When he came across one of Dimitri’s men, he jabbed him in the throat, putting him down immediately.
He wasn’t showy, like Tony. Wasn’t flashy, like Evan. He was after the swiftest way to his woman and her brother. Anything in his path simply became an object to remove. Through the dark maze, he turned. He slammed heads. He poked eyes. He crushed kneecaps with a boot. He threw bodies over his shoulder. And when he got to the end of the tunnel—Wyatt pulled back at the last possible moment as a blur of wrath attacked him. He caught the fist before it struck his face and grinned with pride.
Alek, my boy.
The teenager was beaten, black-eyed and bruised, and he was alone in the edge of the hallway, standing before a closed door containing Dimitri’s twisted wrath. Alone, beat, but insatiable. The kid had remembered his lessons, and when Wyatt had caught his fist, the boy adjusted his strike. Turn the body, bend the knees, follow through, commit with the other hand—strike the open solar plexus. Wyatt remembered vividly showing Alek what to do, and the boy did it without wavering.
Wyatt caught Alek’s second fist.
A foot headed toward Wyatt’s groin, and he was about to shout for Alek to stop, but couldn’t. His mouth was covered. Alek couldn’t read his lips, and with Wyatt’s hands occupied, he couldn’t sign. He released, shoved away and tugged his scarf down.
It’s me, Wyatt signed and mouthed. It’s me.
Alek flinched, and his bravado melted. His face crumpled, and he began to sign wildly, pointing at the solid door behind him.
Wyatt slid the fingers on his right gloved hand up the back of his left hand. Slow down, kid. I’m not there yet with the sign language.
Alek’s bottom lip disappeared under his teeth as he forced himself to calm.
A cold realization settled on Wyatt. There was no way Misha worked with the Syndicate. Not with Alek so brutally beaten. She’d never stand for that.
“Misha’s in there?” Wyatt asked quietly.
A nod, and then Alek’s brows joined and lifted in the middle, clearly distraught.
“Is she…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, or to sign.
Alek shook his head and then signed, She’s alive.
But that’s where Wyatt’s translation ended. He lost the rest. His skill wasn’t enough, because the next actions made Wyatt think of a baby. The boy rocked his arms as though he held one, and then he pointed to the door.
“There’s a baby in there?”
Alek shook his head and made a motion around his stomach, pointing desperately at the door. Misha was in there. Why would he make that motion toward the door unless—Wyatt’s heart stopped beating. Misha’s evasiveness and unexplained vomiting over the week became clear. She was pregnant, and she was in danger.
He froze. Rooted to the spot as the word bounced around in his head. Pregnant? His?
No time.
If Alek knew, he’d never leave her side willingly. “What are you doing out here?”
She locked me out. Blue eyes widened and Alek shook his head. I’m looking for a weapon.
“Kid, I am the weapon. Move.”
Thirty-Nine
The sick man in front of Misha had been toying with her since high school because—if he was believed—he was her half-brother. Reconciling his view of their mother with her own version was not melding. She knew Hannah Minksi to be a kind and caring mother who would do anything for her children. It didn’t make sense that she would give one up. Never. It didn’t compute that she was this whore Dimitri made her out to be, even if she was beaten by her first husband.
Misha was in some kind of hell, a nightmare she couldn’t wake from, but there she was, dressed in a cheap French Maid’s outfit, with no weapon, and no protection from the madman with an impossible mechanical arm. As she stared at him, she couldn’t help registering the real pain in his eyes.
“You’re taking your anger out on the wrong person,” she said, lifting her chin. “If what you said is true, I had nothing to do with my mother’s decisions. I wasn’t even born then.”
“You had everything to do with it!” he shouted, face turning red with rage. “She wanted you, but did not want me.”
“You want me to feel sorry for you?”
“No. I want you to pay for her sins.” Dimitri drew his mechanical fist back, clenched his teeth and held it there, hovering—eyes so full of fury that Misha knew these next few minutes would be her last, and she didn’t want to die, not anymore. She knew she’d already become a burden to Wyatt, and this child would make everything complicated, but damn her if she gave up now.
Dimitri released. Misha dodged and his metal fist embedded in the wall beside her head. Plaster crumbled. She tried to get out from underneath him but he grabbed her with his free hand and forced her in place while he yanked his enhanced hand free.
She had nothing. No weapons, but herself. She kicked and punched and scratched. The man was smaller than her, but strong, so strong. Hopelessly, every strike she made glanced off, and when her fist struck his metal arm, she cried out in agony. All she did was infuriate Dimitri further, and when he finally pulled his metal hand free from the wall, and drew it to strike, she shut her eyes and prayed.
This is it.
Had she lived life the way she wanted? Everything stilled and Misha’s world slowed. Time stopped and all she could think was, I don’t want to die. I’m not ready.
A loud bang exploded behind Dimitri and a shadow burst through the door, kicking it from its hinges. That’s all she saw, the fast blur of a shadow, and then Dimitri cried out in pain, bowing his back as though he’d been hit there. Dimitri’s face twisted, and he rounded on his attacker, mechanical fist flying.
Wyatt.
In his Deadly suit with the hood and mask down, his face was clear as day and… infuriated. His dark blue eyes were shrouded in animosity. He focused all that fury on the man who’d tried to kill her. Wyatt’s hands moved in expert precision as he pummeled Dimitri, but when Dimitri’s powerful arm collided with Wyatt—Misha’s heart almost burst from her chest.
She thought he was bulletproof, but that right hook knocked the sense out of Wyatt—he shook his head, clearing the fog from the hit. A flash of red blood in his mouth revealed he wasn’t infallible. Dimitri took advantage. He attacked Wyatt, over and over again, hitting her man with his unyielding metal fist. Wyatt blocked, two forearms and fists shielding his body and face.
Weapon. She needed a weapon. Her sight jumped all over the broken room, searching for something. Glass. The glass terrarium had broken. She ignored the tiny shards pricking her bare feet and ran to the desk, looking for a big shard she could wrap her jacket around and use to cut. But when she rounded the desk, she saw something even more frightening. The enormous snake slithered out of its container, somehow climbing over the fallen computer monitors, broken glass, and filling the entire floor space between the desk and the back wall. It was massive. Human killing size. She swallowed a lump in her throat, urgency speeding her pulse. There was no way she’d reach past that thing to find a shard of glass big enough to use as a weapon.
So what? What else?
Dimitri’s damned golden gun.
Misha yanked open the drawer to his desk. Adrenaline surged when her eyes landed on the obscene glowing weapon winking in the artificial light. She picked it up and turned back to the grappling men. Wyatt had Dimitri in a headlock, and was trying to separate his arm from his body with his feet, but the mechanical arm was too strong and slippery to gain purchase. The two men rolled, grunting. There was no clear shot. They were so intertwined… but… Wyatt was bulletproof. Maybe not mechanical arm proof, but she could shoot, she could—
No time. With an infernal roar, Wyatt tore Dimitri’s gold arm in two at the elbow.
“No!” Dimitri wrenched himself from Wyatt and stood cradling his shoulder. Wires dangled from the cyborg prosthetic, sparks ignited. Dimitri tried to irrationally hold the wiring together, but only succeeded in giving himself small electric shocks. “Give it back!”
Wyatt held Dimitri’s broken metal arm. He flipped it to adjust his grip, holding it by the wrist, and then his hard eyes met Misha’s. He swung the metal arm, baseball style at Dimitri’s head, knocking the man out cold. Dimitri’s body landed near the desk with a thud.
Panting, Wyatt dropped the dead arm, kneeled down beside Dimitri and raised his fist, aiming for his face.
“No!” Misha shouted.
Wyatt stopped, drawing back confused.
“Don’t kill him.”
“Why? After all he’s done.”
“I—I think he’s my half-brother. I know he’s insane. I know he’s been ruining my life for years, but… I can’t. I just can’t bring myself to be the one responsible for his death.”
“Fine.” Wyatt stood up. “But I’m not leaving him like this. He has to pay for his crimes. He’s—” Wyatt suddenly clammed up. His eyes dropped to her outfit, lowered to her stomach, and then lifted to meet her gaze. He stilled.
Everything stilled.
In that moment, Misha knew why. Alek must have said something about her earlier confession. She held her breath. This was it. The truth would come out.
“Is it true?” he croaked.
“I think so. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Because I don’t want to be a burden. My problems shouldn’t be your problems.”
“You’re calling this child a problem?” The whites of Wyatt’s eyes showed as he gestured toward her stomach.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not even sure if I am, but—” She sighed deeply. “It was wrong of me to leave like that. I’m sorry. I just heard you fighting with your family. You’re needed by the people of this city. Parker was right. There are priorities, and you’d only just reconciled with your family. I didn’t want to be—”
Wyatt was upon her in an instant, bright blue eyes imploring. “You are not a burden.”
She tried to talk, but nothing came out.
He shook her gently. “Christ. Don’t make me say it again.”
But she couldn’t face him.
“Misha Minksi, you’re not a burden. You’re a joy. Before I met you I was in a dark place. A broken man. I never thought I would be able to trust another person again, let alone a woman. But there you were, crashing into my bed.” A small smile danced on his lips. “You challenge me, and you lift me up. You gave me a voice… got me to control my anger. I can’t live without you, baby or not.”
“Wyatt… I…”
“No. I mean it. And helping you and your family is an honor. I will guard them with my life. My family might have other priorities, but I don’t. You’re it for me, and believe me, Evan and Griffin would do the same for their mates, so… you come first.”
She choked on a sob.
“You don’t have to say anything. I’m not expecting you to feel the same way. I know I’m different, and to expect you to love me back right now is impossible. It’s all kinds of fucked up. One of the things I like about you, Misha, is that you turn any dark situation into a positive.” He grinned. “And you don’t give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks of you.” He took a breath, lashes lowering to her stomach once more. When he lifted his yearning gaze, Misha’s heart squeezed. “I know I’m this cursing, short-fused idiot with no job and nothing else to offer the world but his fists—”
“Shut up.”
Startled, his jaw clicked closed.
Tears fell from her eyes now, but it all came through a smile. “You are an idiot.”
“I am?”
“Yes, because I do love you.” She cupped his stubbly jaw and lifted her lips to his, kissing him gently. Her fingers trailed his scratchy jaw, thick with uncut stubble. It made him so darkly attractive that she was already forgetting the words that had come to her mind. “You are so much more than your sin. You’re loyal, strong, sexy, and when you fall, you go all in. I love that about you.”
He buried his face into her neck and held her so tight she thought she might explode.
A clapping sound came from the door, and they broke apart.
Alek poked his frightened face in. He clapped again and pointed at their feet the same time somet
hing rubbed up against Misha’s bare skin. When she glanced down, terror gripped her tight.
“S-s-s-snake.”
“Jesus!” Wyatt pulled her back, out of the way of the fifteen foot anaconda slowly wrapping its way around Dimitri’s body, crushing him in its massive girth. They could hear bones and metal crunch.
Wyatt scooped up her fallen clothing. “Come on. We have to go.”
Misha took one last look at Dimitri and then averted her eyes. She should feel bad, but in the end, he got what was coming to him. There was no way of saving him now.
Forty
Goddamn that snake, was all Wyatt could think as he barricaded Dimitri’s office door closed while Misha dressed back into her normal clothes in the hallway. When he was done, he told her and Alek to stay put until he returned. He’d had no response from Mary and Sloan, despite repeated attempts at contact on his comms. It wasn’t right. Tugging his mask up to conceal his identity, he made sure Misha had the golden gun, and then gave Alek one of his daggers before continuing through the hallway. Midway up the basement steps, he had to step over bodies—fallen men and white-robed lumps covered in blood and gore. They’d been thrown down the stairwell from the main level. The smell was sticky, and the air was thick. He hadn’t seen such a massacre in years. Stone cold unease unfurled in his gut as he stepped over more unmoving bodies—it was quiet. Too quiet.
He tried the comms again. “Sloth,” he hissed. “What’s your status?”
Nothing.
“Mary.”
Silence.
Shit.
Picking up the pace, he stopped only to check the pulse on a few bodies. All dead. He recognized evidence of Mary’s trademark puncture wounds in vital pressure points. Bled out from their femoral or carotid arteries from one simple stab. She must have been a tornado of destruction. He cautiously continued up the stairwell, and when he crested the top to land on the ground level, more silence greeted him. The music was off. The only light came from the green emergency exit signs lighting the path out. Deep into the club where the stage and catwalk was, it was a shadowed mess. He couldn’t see jack. But if he concentrated hard, he could feel something.
Wrath (The Deadly Seven Book 3) Page 24