Moving Target (Target #3)(16)

“Yes. Mario had one.”

Of course he did. Mario was an All-American hero who ate testosterone for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Unlike me, a member of the Bratva and the Wraith Organization who hides in the shadows, amassing a fortune I cannot share. Not even my country wants me.

Well, if I had a country they certainly wouldn’t want me.

Chloe and I run to the bike, grabbing the helmets and putting them on. She doesn’t even ask questions, simply gets on behind me and wraps her arms around my waist while I start it up.

Because everyone is so distracted, we make a rather easy retreat, but I don’t let that stop me from pushing the bike to top speeds. Her arms tighten around my waist and I feel her entire body press against mine, trembling.

Pure torture, but I deserve it for thinking the way I did about her husband. I slow my speed, taking the curves of the road as we travel. My pulse starts to settle, but inside, my brain is screaming at me that it was too easy. That our escape was too perfect.

Suddenly, we’re bumped from behind. Chloe screams. I glance back. The same black Mercedes that pulled up beside me is behind us now. The man has his arm out a window.

He has a gun trained on us.

Fuck. I should have known.





9





Chloe



The bump from behind almost sends me flying, but my arms are wrapped so tight around Dima that I’m able to hang on.

Barely.

His head turns and I know he’s assessing what’s behind us, but I refuse to look. After his car exploded, I’m pretty convinced that we’ve been discovered.

And I’m sure that Dima is on my side… unless he’s being punished for not bringing me to Amsterdam on time.

Then again, he spent five days nursing me back to health. Five days with me puking, shaking, sweating, and worse. He was utterly patient and tender.

I remember him washing down my body, trying to cool me off and get me comfortable while murmuring to me in Russian. I have no idea what he said, only that his voice was a comfort I had no choice but to cling to.

Dima revs the engine and we zoom past three cars, then begin weaving in and out of traffic. I risk a peek behind and find a black car following us, uncaring of who’s in his way as cars make room for him.

Black metal glints in the sun. Is that a gun?

“He has a gun,” I scream, but I’m not sure if Dima can hear me.

Dima suddenly slumps forward a bit, and then sits up again, but he’s favoring his right side.

I flip up my visor. “Are you okay?” I yell over the roar of the wind and engine.

Flipping open his shield too, he looks back. “Just hold on.”

Then he’s on the move once more, weaving through traffic at faster and faster speeds.

Silently, I start praying. Flipping my visor down, I shut my eyes when I see a huge truck heading right for us. A horn blares as we swerve to one side. I hear and the screech of brakes and the crunch of metal. I fully expect this to be my last breath.

So I open my eyes, only to see a clear road ahead of us.

I jerk my body around, still holding on to Dima for dear life. A wheel rolls off the highway and bounces down the side of a sharp ravine. The black car that was chasing us is practically embedded into the side and under the truck.

The driver of the truck gets out, but the man in the car isn’t moving at all. Exhaling, I turn around. I wish I could say I was sorry, but I’m not. That person wanted to kill us and tried to.

After twenty more minutes, Dima finally pulls over and behind a copse of trees. As soon as he parks the bike, he jumps off, rips off his helmet, and starts to curse in three different languages—one of them English.

“Better him than us,” I say as I slide off the motorcycle and take off my helmet.

“That is not why I’m upset.” His face is hard as he marches up to me and takes my shoulders in his large hands. “He wanted to kill you. He aimed for you.”

“But I’m okay.” And why does it matter to him? I matter nothing to him. I haven’t seen him in years.

“Right now you are, but in an hour… a day… who the hell knows. Not me.” He leans in. “It felt off. I should have listened to my gut, but I didn’t.”

“Been there. Done that. Got locked in a trunk.”

“Don’t remind me. I’m still in shock that you were there.” He lets go of me, but my shoulders still feel the weight of his hands. “I’m going to ask you one last time—what have you done? Who did you piss off? And are you sure your husband is not to blame for this?”

That gets me going. “How dare you! Mario’s been dead for two years now. I feel like I’ve finally started living again, or I had… and you want to pin this on me? Me!” I shove my finger into his chest. “Like I said, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t piss anyone off except Mario’s family, but they live in a trailer park down in Brownsville, Texas. They don’t have money to pull something like this off. They don’t even know I’m here.”

“Who does know you’re here?”

“My mother.” I hold up my hand. “I swear to God that if you try implicating her in this I will kick you in the balls so hard that you spit them up.”

A tic starts up in his jaw. “Why did it have to be you?”