Page 80 of Savage Don

Ripping out my gun, I throw caution to the wind and start firing at the back wheels. I get a few good shots in before Artuzov manages to regain control of his vehicle and take off again.

But he doesn’t get far. His two back tires have been shredded by my bullets, and the whole back half of the Escalade starts to sink until it’s scraping against the ground.

Sparks fly up from the wreckage as Artuzov attempts to power through the chaos, but he’s lost control.

Another attempt to make a sharp turn ends in disaster, and by the time I catch up, the car is already on its side, crushing the hoods of three different parked cars.

“Come out with your hands up, you bastard!” I shout, keeping my gun trained at the upturned driver’s door.

It doesn’t take long before I see a bloody hand appear in the shattered window. Whether he heard me or not, Artuzov has decided to try his hand at climbing out of the mess he’s made.

I let him try.

Blood drips from his ear as he slowly pulls his way through the busted window frame. In the distance, I can hear screaming and police sirens.

I’m not afraid of cops—we have enough of them on our payroll that I would almost certainly be out of any station before dinner time—but giving myself up right now might mean losing sight of Artuzov again.

I’m not about to let that happen.

So, while the bloody old Russian helpfully pulls himself out of the wreckage he caused, I look around for a getaway car.

Just up ahead, I find the perfect one. A mid-sized Sudan with a trunk big enough to fit a body in. I’ll hotwire it, shove Artuzov in the back, and drive out of here like I’m just another scared civilian.

“Chert voz’mi,” Artuzov grunts, as he finally falls from the overturned window.

His old body hits the cement with a thud, and I’m immediately on him.

“You’re coming with me old man, and you’re going to wish you hadn’t caused all of this trouble.”

“I’ve caused enough trouble for one life,” he mumbles. “Goodbye, cruel world. Uvidimsya v adu.”

“Stop your blabbering,” I growl, slapping him in the cheek. “This isn’t the end of you. Not yet. I’m going to make you suffer first.”

Before I can pick him up, though, I see what he really means.

My heart drops like a fucking stone when I see the first bits of foam bubbling up from the corner of his mouth. His skin is already turning blue by the time I push him back onto the ground and send my hand careening down his gullet.

“Oh, hell no. You’re not dying on me, you old fuck,” I snap, desperately reaching down his throat in an attempt to grab hold of the poison capsule I know has already dissolved into his system.

These sneaky Russian fucks. Of course this old Soviet spy would rather go out with a suicide pill than face the consequences of his actions.

The fucking coward. He’s escaping me.

The least I can do is make his last few moments a living hell.

Grabbing onto his throat from the inside, I twist. All of my rage settles in my fingertips, and I pull with everything I’ve got, all while looking directly into the wide, terrified eyes of Iskhak Artuzov. He’s in an immense amount of pain. But that’s not enough. I’m pissed the fuck off.

With one final jerk, I decapitate him from the inside out.

His innards come spilling out as I fall backwards, landing hard on my ass.

“Fuck!” I roar, throwing the soggy vocal chords down beside me.

The desperate rage that burned through me as I chased Artuzov explodes. But it’s joined by an intense sense of failure.

Fucking hell.

Maksim. My empire. My life.