Page 9 of Tracking Shadows
Irina’s grip tightens. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, I swear! Now, please, just let me go.”
Irina glances at me, and I nod, signaling that we need to get out of here—now. She releases the bartender, who scramblesback behind the bar, no doubt counting his blessings that we’re letting him off easy.
But before we can make our escape, the situation takes a deadly turn. One of Sergei’s men catches sight of the bartender trying to slip away, and with a cold, calculated movement, he pulls a gun. The sound of the shot is deafening in the confined space of the bar. I watch in horror as the bartender’s body jerks, then crumples to the floor, a dark pool of blood spreading rapidly beneath him.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
The message is clear: These men aren’t playing games.
More of the men cut us off, blocking the way out. They’re armed, and it’s clear they’re not planning on letting us leave without a fight. One of them levels a gun in our direction, his eyes cold.
“Time to go,” I mutter, reaching for my weapon.
Shots ring out, echoing through the club. I duck, grabbing Irina’s arm and pulling her to the ground as bullets fly overhead. The patrons scream and scatter, adding to the chaos. Irina fires back, her movements quick and precise. One of the guards goes down, but more take his place, and it’s clear we’re outnumbered.
“We need to get out, now!” I shout, my voice barely audible over the din.
Irina nods. We start moving, using the tables and the bar as cover, pushing toward the back exit. The gunfire is relentless, and I can feel the sting of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Just as we reach the exit, a sharp pain tears through my side. I gasp, stumbling forward, and I realize I’ve been hit. I don’t have time to assess the damage, don’t even have time to think—just push through it, keep moving, get out of here before it’s too late.
We burst through the back door, the cool night air hitting us like a slap. I don’t let go of Irina until we’re halfway down the block, the pain in my side intensifying with every step. My breath comes in ragged gasps, and I can feel the warmth of blood seeping through my shirt.
“That could’ve gone smoother,” I say, forcing the words out, still half-jogging to put more distance between us and the club.
Irina glares at me, her eyes blazing. “If you hadn’t wasted time playing nice, we could’ve been out of there with the information we needed.”
“And if you hadn’t gone all Rambo on them, we might have slipped out unnoticed,” I shoot back, though the pain in my side makes the words come out more strained than I intended. She’s tough, I’ll give her that, but I can’t deny that her methods are effective, if a bit . . . aggressive.
We reach our safe house. It's a rundown apartment building that is off the grid, and we slip inside, locking the door behind us. The place is dark and sparse, but it’ll do for now.
Irina checks the windows, making sure we weren’t followed, before finally turning to face me. “We’ve got a location.”
“Yeah.” I nod, catching my breath but wincing as the movement sends a sharp pain through my side. “A warehouse. Could be something, could be nothing. But it’s all we’ve got.”
She crosses her arms, leaning against the wall as she studies me, her expression unreadable. “We’ll check it out tomorrow. But next time, we do things my way.”
I give her a half-smile. But it’s taking everything I have to keep upright, to keep the pain from showing on my face. “We’ll see.”
She doesn’t argue, just nods, finally letting some of the fight drain out of her. We’re on the same side, after all, even if we have a hell of a time agreeing on how to get the job done. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m starting to see that we might just make a good team—if we don’t kill each other first.
But as she turns away, I feel the strength drain from my legs. I brace myself against the wall, trying to steady my breathing, but it’s no use. The pain is too sharp, too overwhelming, and when I lift my hand, it comes away slick with blood.
“Alexei?” Irina’s voice is suddenly sharp, alert, and she’s at my side in an instant, her eyes wide as she sees the blood.
“Oh, fuck,” I mutter, finally letting the pain show on my face as my vision starts to blur. “This . . . is going to be a problem.”
Chapter 4 – Irina
“Focus, Irina,” my father’s firm voice cuts through the late afternoon air with the sharpness of a command. His eyes, always so intense when he’s in training mode, are locked on mine, waiting for my response.
“I am focused,” I reply, trying to hide the frustration in my voice.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate these lessons—I do. But after hours of practice, my muscles are aching, and the sweat dripping down my back makes my shirt cling to my skin in the most uncomfortable way. I just want to finish, but I know better than to complain. Dad doesn’t tolerate whining.
“Good,” he says, stepping back into a defensive stance. “Now show me what you’ve got.”