Page 2 of Twisted Enemy
Tarasov moves so quickly I get no warning—not the flex of his arm across my throat, not the pressure of his chest against my back. Instead, my skull is splashed with fire, and my knees turn to water. The world tapers to a single bright point against absolute night, and my stomach tries to squeeze through the back of my throat.
I don’t know how long it takes me to realize Tarasov has slammed his gun into the side of my head. When I blink hard enough to clear away the charred darkness, Cole is just a few feet away.
He holds out his hands, as if he’s been caught stealing. “Easy,” he says, and I think he’s speaking to me. But then he says, “We can settle this like grown men. Just put down the gun.”
Cole’s voice is calm, as if he’s deciding what to order off a very long menu. His shoulders are relaxed. His entire body seems focused on sending one unified message—he’s an ally, a friend, someone who can be trusted. He grew up running cons with his hustler of a mother. He and his sister both—they’re experts on convincing people to hand over something of value.
Something like a gun.
Or like me.
Cole continues to talk as if he’s gentling a wild mustang. “You’ve got my attention. I’ll listen to anything you want to tell me. You don’t need Kate to make that happen. You can put down the gun. I’m not going anywhere. Not until you’ve had your say.”
The inside of my head is packed with cotton wool. Someone’s sobbing. I think it’s me, until I realize the sound is coming from several feet away, from near the garage.
It’s Megan. Megan’s the one who is crying.
Cole doesn’t seem to hear her. He says, “MaskedMarauder, right? I know you from the game.”
Even through my fog, I know Cole’s talking about Winter Reckoning, the online game he designed. He filled it with codes and puzzles, with maths for players to solve to advance to higher and higher levels. Every one of my Red Cap Raiders is an expert at the game, Mask included. Me too.
Cole says, “I know you have self-control. You’re a man of reason. That’s how you’ve come so far in life. You c?—”
“Stop talking!” Tarasov growls, shoving his pistol against my temple.
Cole cuts himself off mid-word.
The mist inside my head swirls and I know I’d be swaying, maybe falling to my knees, if Tarasov didn’t have me in his death grip.
No one gives orders to Cole.
But Tarasov did. And Cole obeyed. And nothing will ever be the same.
Tarasov juts his chin toward the garage. “You too,” he snarls at Megan. “Silence.”
She hiccups, but her sobs die down.
“This is what will happen now,” Tarasov says to Cole. “You will invite me into your home. We will sit down like human beings. We will have a business conversation.”
Cole’s house is off-limits to anyone but staff and family—and by family, I meanme. He lives behind a twenty-foot fence and a black iron gate and more biometrics than most military facilities. That’s what billions can buy.
But now, my husband takes a single step to the side, gesturing with one shoulder for Tarasov to pass through the gaping front door.
The bratva attacker merely pulls me closer to his chest. “I am not an idiot, Wolf. You go first.”
Cole holds a black belt in krav maga. He maintains a professional-level boxing gym on the second floor of his home. He has the strength—and the motivation—to break Tarasov’s neck with a single, sharp twist.
But none of that matters because a gun is pressed to my head.
“No panic buttons,” Tarasov warns. “No sudden moves. Please understand, I have a very strong startle reflex.”
Cole leads the way inside.
My feet feel disconnected from my body, as if someone sliced a cable somewhere deep inside me. I don’t remember how to cross the continent of the brick drive. But that doesn’t matter, because Tarasov half-drags, half-carries me over the threshold.
Beneath the cobwebs, my brain starts stringing together all the things I want to say to Tarasov. To Mask. To the man who kidnapped me a lifetime ago and the team member I would have died for, as recently as yesterday.
You’re such a big man, aren’t you? You and your feckin’ gun? It’s hard to make a grown woman do what you want, isn’t it? Not like forcing an innocent child, ya feckin’ gombeen.
