Page 126 of Ruined

I got out, keeping my movements slow until I reached the edge of the street where the light from the streetlamp barely touched. One of the guards looked half asleep, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he leaned against the railing of the front steps. The other was alert but distracted, his attention on his phone.

I raised my head. “Ey, Ivan!Ty tam?”

The guard straightened, frowning. He muttered something to his buddy. The guy I called out to squinted. “Kto eto?”

I stepped into the edge of the light. “Eto, Sergei. Nuzhna pomoshch’ szadi.”

The guard hesitated. With a grunt, he nodded to his partner and started down the steps toward me.

As he approached, I kept talking. “Ty slyshal vystrely?”

The guard shook his head, stepping closer.

He was almost on me when Santino moved from behind the house, his arm snaking around the guard’s neck in a sleeper hold. The guard’s eyes bulged as he clawed Santino’s arm. I took out my knife and stabbed him in the chest twice. Santino’s palm muffled his screams, and the guard’s body sagged.

I stepped back, watching as Santino lowered him to the ground.

“Next one. Let’s go.”

The first guard was down, slumped in the shadows. The second guard lingered by the front door, distracted by his phone. Santino nodded, and we moved.

Santino went low, creeping toward the guy while I circled wide, keeping my knife hidden. The guard’s head snapped up as Santino lunged, grabbing him by the throat.

I closed the distance, the knife in my hand flashing. The guard’s eyes widened as the blade sunk deep into his chest. He jerked once, a gurgling gasp leaving his lips, and then he went still, slumping against Santino’s grip. Santino tossed the body aside.

I wiped the blood from my knife on the guy’s jacket, and then we dragged him into the shadows, hiding the body next to his partner. We didn’t have much time.

“You ready?” Santino asked.

I took out my gun. “Let’s go.”

We made our way to the front door. The house was dark, the only sound the distant hum of traffic from the street. I led the way down the narrow hallway.

As we crept toward the kitchen, dishes clattered. I signaled to Santino, who stayed close behind me, his gun raised and ready.

We rounded the corner, and a Bratva thug, mid-thirties, stocky with a scar running down the side of his face rummaged through the fridge.

He turned, his eyes widening. His hand darted toward his waistband. I aimed my gun, firing twice.

The first bullet hit him in the stomach, spinning him back against the fridge. The second slammed into his chest. Blood sprayed across the white appliance in jagged streaks, and he collapsed.

The fridge door swung shut from the force, leaving a smear of blood on the handle. I darted forward, my gun trained on him, but his hand fell limp, his head lolling to the side.

A basement door flung open.

Two Bratva thugs appeared at the top of the staircase, weapons in hand. My shot clipped the first one in the chest, and he crumpled with a grunt, tumbling backward. The second guy fired blindly, his bullets tearing into the wall near my head.

Santino put two clean shots in the guy’s torso. He dropped hard, his body hitting the floor with a thud.

I rushed to check their faces, my breath ragged. Neither of them was Alexei.

Damn it. “Let’s move.”

We crept down the narrow stairs, the dim light swinging at the bottom casting jagged shadows on the walls. As we descended, muffled voices sharpened into words, their tones edged with panic.

“Did you hear that?” one of them hissed.

“Yeah, I heard it,” another man snapped. “Shut up and keep an eye on him.”