Page 42 of Filthy Dirty Dom
“Right. Like I believe that. Now, move.” He jammed the gun against the back of Alex’s head and nudged him forward.
He walked toward Leslie’s front door. They were about ten paces away. Then five, approaching a patch of ice. Alex stepped onto the ice, forcing every part of his body to maintain balance so the other man had no warning he’d be stepping onto the slick surface. As soon as Alex knew the man had both feet on the ice, he threw his head backward against the barrel of the gun.
The sudden pressure caused the man to shift his weight, which in turn made him slip so the barrel of the gun was no longer against Alex’s head. Alex kicked out behind him, connecting with the man’s leg, then in one motion, he swept his leg and yanked his gun out of his boot, all while the man came down hard on the ice. Before the man could point his gun, Alex shot him point blank between the eyes.
Quickly, Alex fished his phone out of his pocket and called Luke even as he took off in a run, headed toward the back of Leslie’s brownstone. “I just killed one man. I don’t know how many are inside.”
“We’re eleven minutes away. Wait to go in until we show up.”
Alex didn’t bother answering. He hung up as he made his way to the rear of Leslie’s brownstone. Stealthily, he took position next to one of the windows, pressed himself against the wall, and slowly looked inside. Her work studio appeared empty. More than likely, they were upstairs.
Quickly, he made his way to the fire escape ladder on the other side of the brownstone, which Alex knew led to Leslie’s bedroom. He grabbed the bottom of the ladder, lowered it, then quietly climbed to the second floor.
Once there, he went to the open bedroom window, silently chastising Leslie for her habit of keeping it unlocked even as he sent a prayer of gratitude that she had. He slipped into her bedroom and paused when he heard male voices coming from her living area. Hugging the walls again, he got into position and spotted them.
Two men. Both with guns. One held a gun pointed to Leslie’s head while the other paced the room, talking on the phone. Staring at the gun resting against Leslie’s temple, fear threatened to overwhelm him, yet intertwined with the tendrils of fear was a fierce resolve, a steely determination that bore down on his pounding heart. His gaze was locked on Leslie, her state of shock mirroring his own terror but also reminding him of his responsibility. The protectiveness that swelled within him tethered him to the grim reality of their situation. It wrapped around his fear, channeling it into a focused resolve.
His heart drummed, a staccato rhythm echoing in his ears. The world narrowed down to this moment, to the task at hand. His blood felt electric in his veins, each pulse a reminder of the stakes, of the life beating within him, of the life he was tasked to protect.
* * *
Leslie, dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, sat quietly on the couch, staring at her hands folded in her lap. She looked scared, but she was holding it together.
A rush of pride swept over him.
Hang on, baby girl. I’m here.
He studied the men more closely as well as their weaponry. The gun at Leslie’s head had a silencer on it, and by the length of the gun sticking out of the other man’s pocket, he guessed there was a silencer on that gun, too. Good. He could use that his advantage.
The two men began speaking to each other in Russian, which immediately made Alex stiffen.
Why the hell were Russians interested in Leslie?
“Get up,” the man holding the gun to Leslie’s head snapped.
She said something about her legs not working because she was so scared.
The man pulled his gun away from her face, only to slap her so hard her neck snapped back.
Alex immediately wanted to kill the man, but he couldn’t move, not with the man’s gun still pointed at Leslie’s head.
“You will learn your place. Cyka blyat!” The man shoved his gun in the back of his waistband and grabbed Leslie by the throat.
Alex rushed them and made two moves: one to snap the neck of the man who’d just hit Leslie, the other to disarm the other man, snap the gun up to the man’s temple and squeezed the trigger.
The echo of Leslie’s scream was deafening, and Alex hated it even as he relished the proof that she was still alive.
A sudden sound behind him had him twirling. There’d been another man in the kitchen.
“I’ll kill her. Put your gun down,” the man ordered.
“I’ll kill you, and I don’t even need a gun,” Alex swore. He held his gun out, away from his body, making sure the man’s eyes were trained on the weapon. Then he tossed it in the corner. As he’d figured, the man’s gaze followed the gun. That’s when he acted.
A few running steps and he was in front of the man. He raised his hands up wide, then brought them in hard against the man’s ears before the man could even react.
The asshole screamed when his eardrums were blasted apart by the force of Alex’s blow. Alex went into full kill mode. He grabbed the man’s arms and one by one, shattered them. He grabbed the man’s head and brought it down hard on his knee, shattering his nose. He threw punch after punch, to the eyes, to the ears again, to the kidneys until the man collapsed, screaming in pain. Alex showed no mercy. He was in utter control—his moves surgical, militaristic.
One side chop to the back of the neck and the man went down onto his belly. Alex rolled him over onto his back and stood over him.