Page 151 of Koroleva

Andrey

I screamed a curse as soon as I realized a guy was pulling Sarka out of the car without me being able to stop it.

I didn't have my men's escort, so I was alone facing that bastard who was kidnapping her right in front of my eyes.

Fifty meters, which seemed like a hundred kilometers, separated me from them.

A cold sweat filled my back with icy moisture. I dropped the damn box I was holding and sprinted out, pulling my gun from the inner holster of my belt, which was concealed in my jacket.

I tried to shoot, but I couldn't do it for fear of hitting Sarka, who lay suspended in his arms.

I tried to shoot, but I couldn't do it for fear of hitting Sarka, who lay suspended in his arms.

The motorcycle was positioned in such a way that it blocked my path, so I had to climb over the hood, run across the roof of my own car, and then jump onto the front of the vehicle of the guy who was just a few centimeters from mine.

The driver was about to protest, but when he saw my semi-automatic, he refrained.

The kidnapper reached a black car. He opened the rear door and got in with my boss's sister. It was parked in double parking, so he could start and immediately turn right without any problem and thus enter a side street.

Shit! I couldn't lose her!

A fast-food delivery guy had just arrived at the corner, riding a small displacement motorcycle. It would have to do. I approached him and threatened him with my gun.

"Get off or the next fried chicken you deliver will be to Saint Peter!" I exclaimed without hesitation. The kid's face fell, and he got off that yellow clunker instantly.

"Take it, man, I didn't even like this job anyway." The crest that adorned his helmet trembled.

I mounted the bike and hit the gas. I didn't care that the traffic light was red and my acceleration caused a multi-car accident involving three vehicles.

I had to get Sarka back, that was all that mattered.

The tires of the black car screeched as it took a turn. I needed a damn straight, a street where I could aim and shoot the tire to screw up their getaway.

A vehicle that came out from my right forced me to jump onto the sidewalk and plow through an old lady's shopping cart as she was heading to the store.

I wobbled on the seat, not losing control, and kicked away the damn fabric cart to get back on the asphalt, under the curses of the woman complaining about her lost chard.

I accelerated again without losing sight of the license plate of that damn bastard.

Could it be the same one who tried to kill Nikita? The thought sent a sharp pang straight to my heart.

I sped up at the idea and looked for a good shooting angle, seeking stable footing.

I missed the first shot because of another damn corner.

I couldn't afford to waste more time playing 'catch me if you can.'

The next street was much longer. If they wanted to turn, they would have to go against the direction as the no-entry sign indicated. A bullet grazed my temple.

It came from the passenger window, where a shooter had started his own personal target practice.

He didn't manage to unsettle me; on the contrary, it gave me a target to aim at. I pulled the trigger, and the bullet gave him a lethal bindi, right between the eyes.

"One less," I said to myself.

As expected, the car turned, ignoring that the street was downhill and it was supposed to go up. A brutal collision was heard.

I couldn't be that lucky!