“Do not move any farther, Asinimov. It is time to deal death and I would not take you by mistake,” she dropped into the silence.
He stilled, recognizing she was on a hair trigger. Her fingers held Vadim’s head surely, almost but not quite stroking the other man as she had Azrael.
“She was mine,” Dmitry told her.
“She was ours the moment this man sold her to Joseph. I know what my sisters have failed to realize—she was your sibling. I have kept your secret and I recognize your blood rights here, now. But you did not watch her break. You did not hold her hand in the dark of night. You did not feed her when she starved. Where were you when she needed you, Asinimov?”
His heart shredded. He’d been a child himself when Ninka and their sister disappeared. Yet every single day he blamed himself for not finding them. It was a cross he bore in his waking and sleeping moments.
She shook her head when he said nothing, and then lowered her mouth to Vadim’s ear. “Do you think you are a good man? Give me your truth and I will make it easy. Lie and I will make it more painful that you could ever imagine.”
“She will come for you,” Vadim said with a sob.
“And I will be waiting,” Bone assured him.
“Go to hell!” Vadim yelled. His voice was hoarse, the knowledge he was about to perish written in the deep grooves of his face.
Bone smiled and it was an ugly thing. “Esli ja popadu v ad, ja vozjmu tebja s soboj,” she promised him in perfect Russian. “Or I could just send you to wait for me.”
Dmitry took another step forward but he wouldn’t be in time. She’d given him more in the last two minutes than he’d had in the last twelve years of searching. Ninka had been with the women of First Team and then she’d been no more. And Vadim was but a part of the scourge who’d sent his sister to her death. There was another, a woman head of the Bratva, and Bone knew who she was.
What happened next appeared in slow motion to Dmitry. She moved with such grace, such wicked beauty, that even when she murdered it was a dance. She twisted Vadim’s head, stepped back, and pushed his body forward.
Bone closed her eyes and lifted her face to the heavens as if praying for forgiveness, but Dmitry was well-aware she cared nothing for it. She had a duty and she’d seen it through. She cared naught for anything else.
Vadim fell in a dead heap on the floor and the sound of gunfire erupted. The doors to the study began to splinter as machine gun rounds ripped into the wood. The chair she’d wedged under the door handles fell into a useless heap and Dmitry glanced at her.
“It is time to run, Asinimov. I would not have another on my conscience.” Her tone was harsh above the sound of the men outside the door reloading.
“Fuck your conscience, ubiytsa. Stand and fight with me. If Joseph is on the other side, we can take him together,” Dmitry shouted above the renewed gunfire.
She shook her head. “It is not time. The empire he’s built is shaky, but it is not quite ready to tumble. There is more work to be done. Now let’s be gone from this place. You are injured and I’m tired of arguing with you.”
First Team was playing with Joseph. It was more than dismantling The Collective, it was about destroying their creator. He didn’t agree with it, almost opened his mouth to berate her, but gunfire littered the room, the furniture, and the walls, and finally the doors fell. He took off, and then they were through the window and headed toward the woods. She disappeared in the darkness, blending in seamlessly with the night and he thought that as it should be.
He was winded and his left arm was numb but still he ran. He hadn’t endured years of training to die so easily.
“You need to move, Asinimov. They are hunting with Vadim’s hounds,” Bone said from the shadows. “Follow me,” she urged.
Dmitry knew the land well, scouted it each time he’d visited Vadim, plotting the many ways he would take the man who sold innocents to Joseph Bombardier. Vadim’s property bordered the eastern edge of the Neva River and that was the direction she was headed.
“I don’t swim,” he murmured.
She stopped. “What the hell do you mean, you don’t swim?”
Anger burned through him, replacing the pain. “I fucking mean I don’t swim.”
He would have laughed at the expression on her face but it wasn’t funny. The baying of Vadim’s dogs in the distance lent credibility to her assertion they, whoever the hell “they” were, were hunting them.
He huffed. “I’m from the Ural Mountains, Bone. We do not fucking swim in the Ural Mountains.”
“Then I will pull you. Can you at least float?” she asked, impatience in her tone.
He didn’t answer and the sound of pursuit prodded him to move again. He passed her and took off running, calling on his reserves and hoping against hope he did not have to go in the cold-as-hell Neva River.
“I will divert them,” she said, not sounding winded at all.