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I barely have time to duck lower behind the desk and blacken my laptop screen before the voices get much louder, and many different footsteps enter the office.
“Okay, buddy,” an unfriendly Russian accent mutters gruffly. “We’re here.”
I slowly peek around the side of the desk. Across the room, fourverySlavic-looking guys—two in shabby-ish suits and twoin Adidas track pants and jackets—are standing in the doorway, facing me. Between us stands a fifth man.
A man all in black. Tall, with broad, menacing shoulders, his back to me as he faces the four.
“Indeed,” the mysterious man growls in a voice with a slight English accent.
I squint as I try to peer at him through the darkness. Is he wearing a hood or something?
“You said you needed to see the place before we talked money and investment. Well?” The Russian who appears to be the one in charge shrugs his shoulders and glances around. “This is it, my friend. This is where the magic happens. You fucking happy now?”
“Not quite.”
It happens so fast that my brain needs time to catch up to what my eyes see. Faster than I ever dreamed a person could move, the man in black is reaching into his coat and yanking something out. The sound of steel across steel zings through the darkness, and the men facing him go pale as their eyes widen.
“Fuck—!”
The first of them chokes, the curse turning to a gurgle as the sword—the motherfuckingsword—in the tall man’s hand slices his throat open. My hand slams over my mouth, my eyes screaming as I watch the tsunami of blood flood from his neck as his body drops like a mail sack.
The man in black doesn’t hesitate.
The second Russian goes down before he can even draw his gun. The third manages to get to his weapon at least. But he screams and drops it when the blade rams through his chest, ripping viciously out the side in another tidal wave of crimson.
I’m not squeamish. I’ve seen things that would turn most people into insomniacs. But this is something else.
It’s like watching a nightmare.
…But I can’t look away. The man in black brandishing the goddamn sword moves like a predator: deliberate and efficient. My eyes stay glued to him as he kills three of the men in seconds. I flinch as the fourth guy—the one that was doing the talking before—gets one shot off. But it’s wild and goes into the ceiling.
A second later, that gun—together with the hand that was holding it—is on the floor.
My heart thuds erratically in my chest as the man screams in agony, his face a horror show as he clutches the stump where his hand used to be.
“Good,” the man in black growls, his back still to me. “It seems I have your fucking attention.”
“Take whatever you want!” the Russian screams. “Take it, you motherfuck?—”
“I don’t want your bloodstained Rubles, you dumb fuckwad,” the monster growls savagely. He grabs the Russian by the shirt collar, shaking him violently. “I wantinformation.”
“I don’t know shit!” the Russian guy bleats, terror lacing his voice. “I don’t?—”
“Wrong answer.”
I flinch, recoiling as the sword rams through the Russian’s foot into the floor.
The man screams.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, motherfucker,” the tall figure growls in that slightly British accent. “And you’re going to?—”
The Russian man’s one good hand jams into his jacket pocket and whips back out, brandishing a small, snub-nosed revolver.
It’s a bold, dramatic move, but he doesn’t get a chance to see it play out.
The man with the sword sighs heavily, as if he’s bored, annoyed, or disappointed…maybe all three. His blade flashes, and I yank my eyes away just as he lops the other hand off the Russian. When the screaming turns to a wet gurgle, followed by a dull thud, my throat simply closes off.
Silence fills the room. Inside my head, though, my pulse is banging like a drum in my ears, my hands still pressed tight against my mouth as if to hold in my screams.
