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“You couldn’t leave at least one alive for questioning?” he asks incredulously.
“Not really,” I sigh. “Took one out on the way out of my car. The second must have been stunned from the impact of the collision and died to a couple of rounds through his chest. The last I had hope for, but he was bleeding out too fast. When I tried questioning him, he took his own life.”
“How? Why didn’t you disarm him first, you moronic…” Simon snaps before I hear a quiet clearing of a different voice.
“Perhaps,” Lucifer says in a placid manner, “we should hear him out.”
Rolling my head around on the roof of this car, I want to slam it into the metal over and over again. “He was paralyzed from the waist down and bleeding out quickly. I was on top of the roof of the car and in no position to take his gun from him.”
“Damn,” Simon says.
“If it helps any, they’re all Russian, and I’ve left them mostly intact,” I say. “We should be able to get their fingerprints and tattoos copied off them to run through your database.”
“James and Johnathan are three minutes out,” Simon says, “Are you injured?”
“That would have been nice of you to ask first, Simon,” I say, smirking into the phone.
If I can’t fuck.
Can’t torture.
Can’t maim or kill.
At least I’m able to annoy Simon.
“Are you injured?” Simon asks venomously.
“Not seriously. Only a small headache from the airbag,” I say and take stock of the rest of my body. “And I’ll need a Band-Aid for my middle finger. I have a slight gash there.”
The line goes dead after I hear Lucifers deep booming laughter echo through the phone.
Looking down at the phone again, I feel a sudden deep-seated terror rising in my chest.
Eden.
Mistakes were made when I stole her phone.
Fuck.
Rolling to my side then off the roof of the BMW, I drop down to my feet.
The world isn’t spinning and I don’t see any hazy shit.
I probably don’t have a concussion.
Walking around to where the dead man rests against the car, I look at the blood splatter that arced up from his head.
Three Russians, only three fucking men in this hit squad.
Did they really think these fucking amateurs would be able to take me out?
Or were they just a fucking decoy…
My heart drops even further in my chest and a sick feeling begins to roll around inside my stomach.
Looking up at the sound of racing engines, I check the mag of my Glock before moving to a more defensive position behind the BMW. There are no sirens. It could be James and Johnathan, or a battalion of Russians, for all I know.
I don’t have long to wait before a big pickup truck and a black BMW race into the parking lot.
