Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(93)

It’s like I’m invisible.

Eventually, my eyes wander to the messy desk, to the stacks of files covering the top of it. It blows my mind how outdated things are here, case files kept as actual files, folders full of papers instead of being stored digitally.

Not really secure, is it?

I glance behind me, out of the office, double-checking nobody is paying me any attention, before shoving out of the chair and slipping around the side of the desk. The files have names scribbled on them in pen. I shift through them quickly, glancing at the handwriting. Blah. Blah. Blah. Bingo.

Aristov.

I bring the file to the top of the stack. It’s thick, bursting at the seams with paperwork. Flipping it open, I scan through some of it, skimming paragraphs and pages, glossing over most of it.

Drugs. Guns. Fraud. Murder.

A lot of allegedly this and allegedly that, he said/she said bullshit, but not much in the way of evidence. No ballistics, no fingerprints, no forensics. A stack of witness statements, each one wrecked with writing, covered in black marker: retracted… missing… deceased… uncooperative… unreliable…

I stall at the last one, blinking a few times at the name on the top of it: Morgan Olivia Myers. Unreliable.

“Whatever,” I grumble as I flip the page.

I skim through the rest. Blah. Blah. Blah. Nothing.

“You have to be kidding me.” I shove it all aside as I scan through files again. There has to be another one somewhere. There has to be more. Besides my original witness statement, there’s very little about my history with Kassian and not a goddamn peep about the pain of the past ten months. “Motherf*ckers.”

I shove a stack of files, sending them scattering along the desk as anger runs through me. Have they even done anything?

Shaking my head, my eyes scan the desk again, and I’m about to walk away when a name catches my eye. Gambini. It’s sloppily scribbled on a fresh folder.

I know that name.

I pick it up, and am about to scan through it when the phone on the desk lights up and starts to ring. Shit. I jump, caught off guard, and shove the file beneath my hoodie, securing it with the waistband of my pants as I get the hell out of there.

I keep my head down as I make my way to the elevator, heading down to the first floor. As soon as it dings, the doors opening, I step off and freeze, hearing the unmistakable sound of a familiar booming laugh echoing through the lobby.

Oh my f*cking—

My head snaps up, my eyes going straight to a man just ten feet from me. I catch a glimpse of his profile as he stands there, elbows against the front desk, leaning over to talk to Officer Rimmel working the command center. Markel. He’s laughing, flirting, and she’s smiling at him. Smiling.

The woman, with her neon pink nails, has never smiled at me. Not once, in ten months.

As the elevator doors behind me close, my eyes bounce from Markel to the exit. Shoving my hands in the pocket of my black hoodie, I lower my head, my eyes on the checkered linoleum.

I hope like hell I stay invisible as I force my feet to move.

You can do this. You can do this. You can do—

Shit.

I’m yanked to an abrupt stop as a hand wraps around my bicep. Turning my head, I catch his eyes, piercing through me as I’m pulled toward him so fast I damn near lose my balance.

“Suka,” he says, grinning, using that word so casually, as if it’s my real name. Bitch.

My heart pounds furiously.

My head is swimming.

I’m in deep shit.

Deep, deep shit.

‘Let go of me.’ Those words damn near come from my lips, but I know it’s a lost cause, pleading at this point. He’s not going to just let me leave. So I’ve got about five seconds to save myself, to find a way out of this, because being in a police precinct won’t be enough to stop him from throwing me over his shoulder and dragging me out of here.

One. Two. Three. Four.

“*cat got your tongue, suka?” he asks, letting out a laugh. “Haven’t you missed me?”

Five.

I don’t think. I just react.

Pulling my hand from my pocket, I point a finger at his face, poking him right in the eye, jabbing hard. BAM. He flinches, letting out one hell of a sound, the shriek so loud everyone turns our way in alarm.

“You bitch!” Markel shouts, covering his eye with his free hand. I know he’s pissed when he says it in English. His hold on my arm loosens in reaction to the sharp pain, letting me slip from his grip and move away.

He tries to recover, realizing he doesn’t have his hands on me anymore, lunging my direction but he’s too slow. Chaos erupts, the command officer calling for help, the police trying to intervene, but it’s too late for that.

I scream at the top of my lungs, scream so loud my voice cracks. “He’s got a gun!”

Does he? I don’t know. Probably not. But who gives a f*ck? It does exactly what I need it to do, inciting panic all around us. People try to flee the precinct, the police frenzied, as I run for the exit, shoving through the crowd.

I damn near make it out before someone else grabs me. Ugh, please don’t be Kassian. Turning, reacting, I swing blindly, striking something.

“Jesus, what the hell, Morgan?”

Detective Jones.

Fuck.

He rubs his shoulder, where I punched him, looking around in confusion, but I don’t have time to explain. I push him off, heading out the door as Markel shouts something in Russian.