Head and ears ringing, I slid blurry eyes toward Michael. He’d seemed unafraid when trapped in the restroom, as cool and calm under pressure as any soldier. But that stoicism had fled. I knew he feared Jericho. As far as I could tell, that was the only thing he did fear, but dread of Jericho wasn’t the emotion I was seeing now. “You’re hurt.” His face was as translucent as wax paper. “You’re bleeding.”
“Misha.” The 9mm was still in my hand that rested on abrasive concrete. It would take more than a bullet in the ribs to make me turn loose of that. A cop didn’t give up his gun and neither did I. Often enough it was all that stood between you and a headstone, for both the law-abiding and the somewhat less so. I was still in the game; I still had a chance to save my brother . . . no matter how small an opportunity it might be. “Misha, ubegat. Nemedlenno.” Run. Now.
Michael might have had language classes out his well-educated ass, but I was hoping Jericho was too preoccupied with playing the baneful God of Genetics to pick up your average Slavic dialect. Once again luck deserted me.
“He takes one step, preyatel, and I blow his foot to a thousand splinters of bone.” He held out his free hand to his side, waiting with arrogant assurance for Michael to take it. It was then I noticed it was artificial, an artistic prosthetic detailed down to the fingernails and perfectly matched skin color. It explained how he was willing to let Michael clasp it; it wasn’t flesh. It wasn’t vulnerable. “I don’t believe you want that,” he continued deliberately. “I can use a temporarily damaged piece of goods, but I’m not at all sure you can.”
He didn’t know. He had no idea that Michael was my brother. How could that be? Years had passed, but the man had to guess that the family of even a much altered, long-renamed Lukas would still be looking for him. He couldn’t think that we’d just give up—even if one of us had.
Anatoly might have moved on, but I never had. In all the time that had passed, I hadn’t stopped trying to take care of my brother. That hadn’t changed. From then until this very moment, it hadn’t changed. “Misha, it’s okay.” My lips curled in encouragement as the blood spread on my shirt. “Now keep your promise.”
I don’t know what Jericho expected would happen. I didn’t even know what I expected, not really. But I knew what I hoped, and Michael didn’t let that hope die. He didn’t let me down.
He ran.
It diverted Jericho’s attention for the briefest second. I saw the flicker of disbelief cross the spare profile. Although Michael had refused to go to him days ago in the van, he still expected the boy to obey him. He couldn’t believe that all the manipulation and all the training hadn’t tamed Michael’s inner core. He simply couldn’t believe it. And when I shot him . . .
He believed that even less.
I wasn’t able to lift my hand to fire. He would’ve seen the movement even before I made it. So I didn’t move the hand; it wasn’t necessary. My finger was enough. At that angle the best shot I could make was his leg. Crimson spurted from his shin and there was the flash of pearly white bone as he screamed. Hoarse, deep, and full of fury, it was the cry of a wounded predator. I’d watched enough Discovery Channel to know that only made him less predictable and a damn sight more dangerous.
Grabbing the door handle behind me, I lurched to a crouch. His gun was still pointed at me and I could see him pushing aside the waves of agony to focus on his target. I found mine first.
Gutshot isn’t the best way to go. The pain of a torn stomach leaking flesh-searing bile doesn’t begin to cover it. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. For Jericho, however, I wished I had the time to send another slug in there to keep the first company. The close wail of approaching sirens told me that while it was a pleasant thought, it might not be practical. I had to get out of there . . . in one goddamn hurry.
The second time I’d shot him, Jericho had fallen onto his back. This time he had lost his gun, using his hand to try to stem the blood oozing from his stomach. The frozen stare had turned into one glossy with hate. Words, sharp and grating, were pushed painfully between clenched teeth. “I’ll . . . kill you.” Sucking in a breath, he closed his eyes and grinned with all the warmth of a toothy skull. “And if . . . I don’t . . . Michael will.”