Page 62 of Savage Pakhan

He grabs me by the back of the neck, ramming my head into the wall. I grab the lamp, twist it around, and smash it against the side of his face. Small cuts appear across his cheeks, blood dripping down his face, shards of the light bulb stick out from his flesh.

“Let me have her and I won’t kill you,” he says, rubbing the blood off his lip with the back of his hand.

“Not a fucking chance. You’ll never get close enough. You’ll never find her.”

“She’s here in this house, da?”

“I don’t know. Is she? Isn’t that your job to know?” I provoke him, wanting him to make the first move. “Or are you too fucking stupid to do the job my son paid you to do?”

He sneers, his arm rising, his hand clenching into a fist. It soars through the air, and I duck left, his knuckles slamming against wall. The trained assassin cries out when bones crunch audibly. He grips his hand and I bend my arm, using my elbow to slam against his jaw as hard as I possibly can.

Another bone cracks when he turns to look at me. His jaw hangs. He roars, charging at me, and push me onto the dining room table. I roll off, grab a chair, spin to gain momentum, and swing the chair.

It hits the broken side of his jaw and he collapses, his head smacking against the table, falling unconscious to the floor.

I limp to the stairwell, grab my gun lying on one of the steps, pull the hammer back, then limp over to him again.

He groans, trying to push himself up to his feet, but he’s too weak. Slinging him up by his jacket, he leans against the table trying to catch his breath.

“Give me your phone.” I press the barrel between his eyes.

Sweat drips down his face, blood stains his skin, the glass from the lamp still protrudes out of his cheeks, and yet he obeys without question. He knows who is really in charge and it’s such a shame now because no one can save him.

I swipe the camera up, swipe to the video option, then set the phone down on the coffee table against the wall across from us. I lean it against a picture, tap the button to have the front camera facing me.

“Hi Son,” I sneer. “I have your hired help here.” I walk towards the man who would have taken my Mia away from me, snag him by his hair, and drag him closer to the phone. “I would go get your other friend, but he’s dead on my basement floor, and this one,” I hiss, “I don’t think he’s going to last much longer.”

His face is swollen from his broken jaw, spit dribbling down his chin.

“It’s pathetic, really. That you think you’d have a hand over me.” I lean forward, pressing the gun into the guy’s mouth. “If you want war, you have it, because Ivan,” I lean in so he can get a good look at my face. “You will never have Mia again. I know what you’ve done.”

I step away, bringing my next kill with me. Snagging him by the roots of his hair again, I drag him back to get both of us in the frame.

“She’s mine, Ivan. And you don’t run the Bykovs. You are not and will never be in charge. You’ve been stripped of your title.” I pull the trigger, brain matter splattering on my floor and fucking couch.

I’ll have to replace it.

“Keep trying and this will be you, Ivan. I’m warning you and this is the only warning you will get.” I snag the phone to stop the recording and put it in my victim’s pocket.

I try to catch my breath, twist my neck left and right for it to crack, and march to the office. With bloody knuckles, I rip out the drawer and blank computer paper flies everywhere.

Picking a piece, I slam it on the table leaving bloody fingerprints all over the edges. Snagging a marker, I take the top off with my teeth, spitting the cap onto the floor.

I write a message in messy, fast handwriting.

“Consider this a warning,” I write.

Meaning, the next dead body could be his if he doesn’t behave.

I toss the marker on the floor and head out of the office, doubling back to grab the stapler.

With rage and vengeance in every step, I march my way to the dead body.

“Don’t even think for one minute your safe even in death,” I mumble, slapping the piece of paper on his chest.

I spit on his body, hating he has ruined the peace I had with Mia. Bending down, I staple the paper his body, wishing I had thought to do this when he was alive. It would have been a wonderful torture technique.

Maybe I’ll do that the next time someone dares to take my Mia away from me.