by Ivy Layne
They might have seen the window open, but without knowing their position, I couldn't depend on it. I had to get my hands on a phone. Voices drifted up the stairs at the far end of the hall. I stood completely still and listened.
There was no trace of movement on the second floor. No creak of the floorboards, no voices, no shift of a body in a chair. No murmur of television or radio.
I was the only one up here. That was inconvenient.
I could go back to the room and wait for someone to come check on me. Possibly the smartest approach. It would give me time to get in position, and whoever came up wouldn't expect me to be free. It also meant waiting for God knows how long, leaving Cooper and the FBI in limbo. Leaving Summer to worry.
Or, I could draw attention to the room and hope that only one or two of them came up to investigate. That still gave me the upper hand, but it put them on alert, and it could leave me too outnumbered to take control.
I'm good, but going empty-handed against two or more heavily-armed bodyguards is not my kind of odds.
Then there was the action hero option—go down the stairs and disarm the first goon I saw before going straight for Tsepov. Crazy, reckless, and almost guaranteed to get me killed.
Option number two it was.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Evers
I stepped back into the room and looked around. A bed, a dresser, and an armchair. I set a hand on either side of the dresser and threw my weight into it, raising it onto two legs and pivoting it away from the wall. It was a heavy son of a bitch. Solid wood, none of that pressboard modern bullshit that was so popular these days. Perfect.
I lowered it gently enough to mask the sound of the furniture moving. Going to the other side, I repeated the pivot, quietly walking the dresser from the wall to the door. Once I had it in position, I leaned into the heavy piece of furniture, raising it on its side and tipping it over a foot in front of the door.
It landed with a crash loud enough to guarantee an investigation. With the dresser almost blocking the door, they'd be able to get into the room, but they'd be forced to enter one at a time. It didn't entirely even the odds, but it would help.
Shouts were followed by feet pounding up the stairs. I couldn't tell if it was two or three, but it was definitely more than one. I crouched behind the dresser, using its bulk as a shield.
It wasn't as well-built as the chair at Rycroft, but it was close. The multiple layers of thick wood were far better protection than the hollow core door and drywall.
Tsepov's goons were a little smarter than I gave them credit for. The pounding feet came to a stop in front of the door, and four precise bullet holes appeared above my head.
Good thing I hadn't been standing there waiting.
Also, good to know they didn't mind killing me. That changed things. I'd been prepared to do what I had to do to get out of the house, but my conscience eased knowing that my adversaries hadn't given a second thought to taking my life.
I stayed where I was, crouched behind the dresser, and waited. The door slammed open, crashing into the dresser and bouncing back. From the outraged yell, I could only assume it had smacked Goon #1 in the face.
He was about to have much bigger problems than a bruised nose. Goon #2 laughed, and the thud of a fist on flesh told me Goon #1 hadn't appreciated being the butt of a joke.
Good. The more annoyed they were with each other, the less they'd focus on me. One of them decided to try again. The muzzle of a gun showed around the edge of the door as a cautious hand pushed it open. Leading with his gun, Goon #1, red nose giving him away, pushed his head through the gap.
The tall dresser made for good cover. From his angle, all Goon #1 could see was the empty bed and open window. His eyes locked on the curtains fluttering in the breeze, he said something in Russian to his companions.
A set of footsteps moved down the hall, probably to check the backyard beneath the open second-story window.
The seemingly-empty room and open window relaxed Goon #1 as he pushed the door against the dresser and squeezed through the tight opening. He should have paid more attention. Should have been more alert.
He didn't see me until his body had cleared the door. He wasn't ready for me to explode from a crouch, shoving the heavy dresser into the door, wedging it shut and leaving him trapped with me.
Goon #1 still had multiple weapons to my zero, but I was betting I could make up the difference. Startled and struggling to catch up, Goon #1 fired wildly, hitting the far wall, the ceiling, the carpet.
He'd missed me, but he wouldn't for much longer. I was too big a target, and he was only feet away. I was on him before he could get his bearings, knocking him to the ground and jamming a knee in his throat. Closing one hand around his wrist, I wrenched the gun from his fingers.
Bones cracked, my knee crushing his larynx, and still he fought, twisting wildly under my weight. I was tall and strong, but this guy had at least 75 pounds on me. I couldn't hold him like this for long.
Pressing the muzzle of the gun to his forehead,I pulled the trigger twice. Beneath me, his body went limp. I didn't have time to think about what I'd done. Later.
I knew from experience Goon #1 would be back. He'd haunt my dreams and my waking nightmares, his soul lingering, whispering in my ear, reminding me that I'd chosen to take his life.
I'd deal with that later. First, I had to finish the mission. Goon #1 wouldn't be the only casualty.
I hoped I wouldn't be on the list along with him.
I searched for the rest of his weapons. I'd been right, a revolver at his ankle and a semi-automatic in a shoulder holster. His ankle holster was secured by Velcro and easily transferred from his leg to mine. His 9mm I set aside while I completed my search.
I wasn't surprised by the guns, but I was impressed by how many knives he'd managed to hide on his person. A butterfly knife. A switchblade. And a fucking hunting knife in a leather sheath. What did he think, he was going to run into a mountain lion in a suburban McMansion?
I took the butterfly knife and the switchblade but left the hunting knife. No cell phone. Two guns, three knives, and no phone? It said a lot about Goon #1's priorities.
Goon #2 pounded on the door, ineffectually twisting the handle as if that would move the dresser out of the way. There were voices in the hall. I couldn't hide forever.
The bullets from the handgun had made it through the door but not the dresser. Their assault rifles would shred the thick wood and me along with it. Listening hard, I decided there were three of them, two directly behind the door and one in the hall to the right of the door.
Still using the dresser as cover, I fired through the wall, a foot to the right of the doorframe. One bullet hit a stud and veered off course. The second hit its target.
Two endless seconds after I fired, a thump sounded in the hall, the floor shaking from the impact. Goon #4 down, two goons left, and I was running out of time.
At this point, the dresser was more hindrance than help. Staying low, I braced my feet and shoved as hard as I could, pushing the dresser away from the door. Reaching up, I turned the handle.
The door swung open a few inches. Goon #2 took the bait. Leading the same way as Goon #1, the muzzle of his gun pushed through the opening first.
Didn't these guys realize how clearly that telegraphed their position?
Apparently not.
I raised the gun I'd stolen and fired twice. Goon #2 dropped to the floor, blocking the doorway as a shout of outrage echoed down the hall. Only Goon #3 was left in the hall. For now.
We had no idea how many men Tsepov had in the house. Anything I could do to thin the ranks would only increase my chances of escape and make it easier for the FBI to take Tsepov.
I expected Goon #3 to follow his compatriot through the door, but he was either smarter or had a better sense of self-preservation. Footsteps thudded on the carpet as he fled down the hall to the stairs.
I was running out of time, and I was trapped
. I needed to signal Cooper. Goon #2's bulk was wedged between the door and the frame. I crouched over him, searching for his phone, keeping my eyes off his face.
My first shot had gone through his cheekbone, splintering teeth and tearing flesh. The second hit his neck. Barely two minutes had passed since he'd fallen, and his shirt was stained red, the carpet beneath his body soggy with blood.
Ignoring the mess, I checked his pockets, finally hitting pay-dirt on the inside of his suit coat. Wiping the blood from his thumb, I used it to unlock the screen and sent Cooper a quick text.
In bedroom on second floor. Three down.
Tsepov's location unknown. I'm armed. Going hunting.
As I'd hoped, Cooper responded almost immediately.
In position.
On our way.
Stay safe.
Stay safe.
If Cooper thought I was going to sit in this room and wait for them to come to the rescue, he was nuts.
I wasn't looking to be the hero. I was more than happy for the FBI to come charging in, weapons drawn, and arrest the bad guy.
I was a sitting duck up here, and they had assault rifles. Waiting for rescue was a death sentence. Compared to Tsepov's arsenal, two guns and a few knives weren't much.
Leaning over Goon #2, I looked past Goon #4's body, splayed outside the door, to see an empty hallway. It wouldn't be empty for long. Time to go exploring.
Heading for the stairs, I was working out a strategy to deal with the staircase and the unknown layout of the first level when instinct drew my eyes up.
I almost didn't see it in time. A six-inch black cylinder flew down the hall, flipping end over end, headed right for me. My body moved before my brain fully processed the danger.
I dove through the nearest door, throwing myself away from the hall as the flash-bang grenade exploded. Even in another room, the searing light left me temporarily blinded, my ears ringing.
I'd trained with stun grenades before. Back then I could have shaken off the effects a little faster. As it was, I wobbled when I rose to my feet, black dots wavering in my vision.
There would be goons with guns on the way. I wished I had a flash-bang of my own to toss down the stairs and clear my entry. A flash-bang, an assault rifle, anything better than the nine-millimeter in my hand.
If I'd been in the hall when that grenade had hit…
I glanced through the open door to see Goon #4's body on fire. Flames ate at his clothes, rising to lick at the walls.
A flash bang is no party if you're in the same room. If it hits you? The light and the sound are the least of your problems. Not that Goon #4 had problems anymore.
I was out of choices and there was no point in strategy. I couldn't play the odds and hide up here until Cooper and the FBI made their way into the house. Not with Goon #4's body turning the second floor into a bonfire.
Even if I managed to put out the flames, I was vulnerable as long as they knew exactly where I was.
Easing past the burning body, I decided I'd take my chances downstairs.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Evers
My back to the wall at the top of the stairs, I peered around the corner. The stair case in Tsepov's McMansion was white marble, curving around the two-story entry as it descended to the white marble foyer.
Pretentious and way oversized for the house, the staircase would have fit better in Rycroft Castle than a suburban house. It did give me a wide-open view of the front door, the stairs, the foyer, and the wide hall to the rest of the house. All empty.
Empty was wrong. After that flash-bang, there should have been someone on the stairs. They must have thrown it and taken off. But why? I didn't wonder for long.
Goon #5 came tearing around the corner, already barreling up the stairs before he spotted me. He looked as surprised to see me as I was that he was alone. His eyes flashed wide as his gun came up.
Not fast enough.
He was down, his head cracking on the marble steps, and I was vaulting over his body before he had a chance to register what was happening. I hoped agent Holley was prepared to explain all these bodies. I wasn't waiting around for Tsepov to kill me.
I crossed the foyer as fast as I could, not liking the exposure of the open space. Once in the wide hall that led to the rest of the house, I found an empty great room straight ahead, its tall windows looking out to the woods beyond the backyard.
I thought I spotted movement in the trees and hoped it wasn't wishful thinking. On my left was a narrow hall that looked like it led to a kitchen and breakfast room. Tsepov was not the kind of guy who hung around his kitchen.
Another hall led to my left, lined with oil paintings and dark-stained wainscoting. Bingo. I ducked into a doorway as two goons rushed past, weapons out, heading for the back door.
The movement in the trees hadn't been wishful thinking. Those two weren't going after me. Good. The more distracted they were the better my chances of finding Tsepov.
I moved down the hall in the direction the two goons had come from, hoping they'd been getting orders from the boss. The first door I came to was a bathroom, the second a sitting room. Both empty. The door at the end of the hall was ajar.
Flattening my back against the hall, I listened. Voices in the distance. A door opening. The room in front of me was quiet, but I didn't think it was empty. From the sliver I could see through the half-open door, it was an office or a library. Exactly what I was looking for.
I nudged the door open with my toe. A quick glance showed me a single man behind a wide mahogany desk. I was through the door, gun raised before Andrei Tsepov could move.
"Don't even think about it," I said. "I'll put a bullet in you before you can shoot."
Tsepov glanced at the gun on his desk but made no move to pick it up. My finger tightened on the trigger as he shoved his hands in his pockets with an air of nonchalance as if he wasn't the least bit worried about my gun aimed at his head.
I eased into the room, putting my back to the wall so I could see the open door and the windows, keeping my gun trained on Tsepov.
"You left quite a body count out there," he commented, seeming unconcerned with the loss of so many loyal henchmen.
I ignored the internal flinch at the reminder of what I'd done. Later. I could atone for all of it later. I had to finish this first.
"You never should have touched Summer."
It was true. If they'd never touched Summer, they wouldn't have had to trade her for me. If they hadn't taken me, I wouldn't have had to shoot my way out.
"That was an error in judgment, I'll admit," Tsepov conceded with an arrogant nod of his head. "I won't make another."
"I wouldn't bet on that," I said. "You're done."
Tsepov laughed, and the cocky, smug sound of it had my finger vibrating on the trigger of my gun.
A feral instinct in me knew he needed to be put down like a rabid dog.
He deserved it. For his crimes against so many unknown victims. For the women and children he'd sold. For putting his hands on Summer. For fucking touching her. Scaring her. For the role he'd played in my father's bad choices. For every life he'd destroyed, I wanted to pull the fucking trigger.
I didn't.
"The FBI is taking you in," I said, infuriated when he raised his shoulder in a shrug and shook his head.
"They can take me in, but they won't hold me."
I gritted my teeth, adjusted my stance, and kept the gun trained on his forehead.
Your job is to keep him here until Holley and his men arrive, I reminded myself. That's it. Do your job and stay cool.
Tsepov must have wanted me to pull that trigger because he couldn't shut the fuck up.
"This is a waste of your time," he said. "I know who has the account numbers. I have men on the way. Once we have the numbers, we'll get rid of the woman, your brother, and then we'll come for the rest of you. You, Cooper, Axel. Your father, his whore, and the girl last."
The venom in his voice bu
rned like acid. My father stealing his money had damaged his pride so much it was worth destroying everyone I loved in revenge. Tsepov didn't care about collateral damage.
I could guess who the woman was considering Knox's current assignment. I could only hope that he and Lily Spencer were safe.
What the fuck did he mean by Maxwell, his whore, and the girl? It didn't make sense.
"Don't call my mother a whore," I said, trying to shake loose more information.
Tsepov didn't fall for my ploy. "Your mother isn't part of this. She was convenient, that's all."
"Then what the fuck are you talking about? What do you mean by his whore and the girl?"
Tsepov's mocking smile stretched across his mouth, baring his teeth, as a voice on a speaker filled the house.
This is the FBI. Surrender your weapons. Face the wall and put your hands up.
Knowing I was out of time, Tsepov shook his head. "You don't know how far heroes can fall, but you will." He laughed, raising his hands in the air and turning to face the wall. With one last smug look over his shoulder, he repeated, "You will."
The door to the office swung open, and agent Holley was there, gun raised, accompanied by three other agents, one of whom flashed a shiny set of handcuffs. Holley read Tsepov his rights, cuffed him, and sent him out with the other agents. I would have felt better if Tsepov had been even a little unnerved by his arrest.
Holley took in my bloody shirt, the flecks of red speckling my hands. "Heard there was a mess upstairs. You're coming back with me."
I started to tell him we'd do it later, but he cut me off. "We'll tell your family you're okay. You don't want your girl to see you like that. She's scared shitless as it is. And I'm not letting you out of my sight until you're debriefed."
I flicked the safety on the weapon and put it on the desk, adrenaline finally starting to fade, leaving my hands shaking. I was ready to sit. To sleep. To walk out of this house and forget everything that had happened here.