The Professional: Part 2 (The Game Maker #1.2)(17)

He cast me an odd look. “Don’t worry, your protection will return.” He slipped out into the rain, swiftly closing in on the boathouse— I spied a muzzle flash out of the corner of my vision. Heard a sharp pop, like a lightning bolt cut short.

Half of Sevastyan’s upper body was wrenched back, as if he’d been punched in the shoulder.

Not punched. Shot.

Lightning flashed as I screamed. By the time my eyes adjusted, Sevastyan and another man were grappling for a gun.

In the headlights’ beams, I could see it was the brigadier Gleb. Sevastyan struck with one of his anvil fists, connecting with the man’s face. Gleb tottered, overpowered.

Sevastyan couldn’t be hurt too badly if he could move like that, right? He wrested the gun from the stunned man, then pistol-whipped Gleb with it. “How many more are there?” he roared.

Gleb’s face split into a macabre grin. Whatever he said sent Sevastyan into a deeper rage, his fist flying.

I scratched at my bloodstained hands as I watched Sevastyan beating a man to death. Another sizzling bolt forked out above, spotlighting a grisly blow.

I’d never seen anyone fight like Sevastyan. Fighting to kill.

This was Sevastyan at his most raw—and real. He was an enforcer, and killing was what he did.

When Gleb collapsed, unconscious, Sevastyan followed him down, dropping to his knees to continue annihilating the man. It was as if some demon had taken Sevastyan over. Gleb’s face was a pulp; with each of Sevastyan’s hits, blood sloshed up from it as if from a disturbed puddle.

When would this end? I opened the door, stumbling toward him. “Sevastyan, we have to leave!” Freezing rain drummed down. “You have to stop this!”

He peered at me, the headlights gleaming in his eyes. I saw madness—and something more. Like he wanted me to stop him—because he was still beating the man.

Between bouts of thunder, I thought I heard bone crunch.

Then I heard something even more terrifying.

Gunfire in the distance. It sounded like a battlefield. The loyal and the disloyal waging all-out war? Sevastyan heard it too. His expression said he was desperate to join that fray.

If anything happened to him . . . if I lost both Sevastyan and Paxán in one blood-drenched night . . . ?

I remembered Paxán’s words: Extreme violence. Extreme vigilance. “You said you keep your promises, Sevastyan. You swore to keep me safe.”

He gazed up at me through rain-thickened lashes, his eyes aglow. I was drowning in them. We were drowning together. I held out my tremulous hand.

As if in a daze, he rose, seeming helpless not to come for me.





Chapter 27




“Will you let me look at your arm?” I asked Sevastyan for the tenth time. I figured I’d keep asking until he responded.

His clothes had dried on him, but he refused to move from the yacht’s steering wheel. For hours, the engines had hummed unceasingly as he’d guided us upriver, our end destination unknown.

He sat on the captain’s bench in the luxurious cockpit, his body rigid with strain. The muted instrument lights illuminated his weary face, those compelling features, his fathomless gaze.

This was the man who’d lunged in front of bullets for me. Who’d killed to protect me. On our first night together, he’d told me, “I will eliminate any threat to you, pitilessly.”

He had.

The glow from the dash highlighted streaks of dried blood across his cheek, neck, and the ripped material around his injured arm.

How much of that blood was his? Gleb’s?

Paxán’s?

“It’s just a graze,” Sevastyan said at length. “I’ve had worse.”

I knew. I’d seen the scars. Encouraged that he was at least talking to me, I asked, “Can’t you take a break? Haven’t we run far enough?”

I’d discovered that running was precisely what this boat had been equipped for. In one of the stately cabins below, I’d found new passports—for Natalya and Roman Sevastyan, a married couple—trunks of our clothing, and a trove of cash. Just-in-case precautions.

In case had happened.

Inside another cabin, I’d also discovered some of Paxán’s things. After the events of the night, this inclusion had seemed . . . na?vely optimistic. Tears had stung my eyes like needles, but I’d tried to stem them, tried to be strong.

I’d managed to hold back as I washed off and dressed in slacks and a sweater. But now, imagining Sevastyan’s own devastation, my eyes watered once more. Aside from me, he was the only other person alive who understood what the world had lost tonight. “We need to clean your injury and then you can rest.”

“Later.” Without looking away from his course, he said, “You’re not safe.”

“Who were you talking to earlier?” When I’d returned to the cockpit after changing, I’d heard Sevastyan on the phone, speaking in terse Russian: “I’ve never asked you for anything. Secure it.” Then, in a lower tone, “Do you understand the importance of what I’m entrusting to you?” Before hanging up, he’d said, “Do not consider this a chance for something more.”

What had that meant? And why had his very accent changed? It’d sounded like a different dialect.

Maybe a Siberian one? “Will you please talk to me, Sevastyan? I have so many questions, and I’m so sick of being confused.”