Quickly glancing to my left, I couldn’t see the entrance to the alley; a tall wall blocked me to my right. But as I turned and moved to run, a strong hand gripped my throat and rammed me back against the cold brick, the impact of the contact knocking the breath from my lungs.
Brandon smiled, cold and sadistic. He shook his head at me, tutting. “You made that far too easy, Talia. Don’t you know you should be careful when talking to strangers?”
All the blood drained from my face as he spoke, his hand tightening its grip. Brandon’s all-American accent had vanished, only to be replaced with a thick Eastern European accent. It wasn’t Russian, but close … Georgian?
My stomach fell. Georgian.
“You’re … Georgian?” I rasped out of my restricted throat and watched as Brandon’s head tilted to the side and his blue eyes narrowed behind his black glasses.
He moved in closer to me and I lifted my hands to claw at his hands. “And how did you know that, Talia? How did you pick out that I’m Georgian?”
Christ, was the city now teeming with Georgians!
I gasped for breath and Brandon’s smile widened. “Now you listen to me. We’re going to take a trip.” Brandon reached into his pocket and pulled out a small syringe filled with a clear liquid. “But I’m going to give you something so you won’t try to get away.”
My hands began to shake and I started thrashing in his arms, trying to escape his grip. Brandon’s hold on me tightened to the point that I could no longer breathe. “Calm down, bitch. Or I’ll really give you something to be sorry for.”
I watched as he brought the syringe to his lips almost in slow motion, biting off the lid to reveal a fine needle. Gaining purchase on the syringe, he lifted it toward my upper arm and I closed my eyes, not wanting to witness what he was doing.
Suddenly a loud crash sounded and a strong hand slammed down on my shoulder, pulling me to the side until I was ripped from Brandon’s hold. I was crushed against a hard chest. My eyes flew open as I coughed and sputtered, air finally finding its way back into my oxygen-starved lungs.
Strong hands kept me upright. Jumping back in fear, I tried to push away from their hold, when I met a familiar pair of blue eyes. “Ilya,” I croaked, wincing at the pain of my sore throat. But Ilya, my personal byki, my Bratva guard, didn’t even look at me.
Hearing another crash behind me, I twisted my head to the right to see Savin, my second guard, smash the heel of his palm against Brandon’s nose, blood immediately spraying on his shirt. The sound of crunching bone assaulted my ears.
Brandon stumbled and instinctively reached for his nose, the syringe he’d tried to inject in my arm falling to the ground.
Savin reached into his back pocket and pulled out his Russian army knife. He smiled as he held up the blade, moonlight reflecting off polished steel. Without hesitation, Savin lunged forward with the knife and drove it into Brandon’s side … right through his kidney.
Brandon called out. Not giving him any chance to retaliate, Savin thrust Brandon back against the opposite wall, forearm to throat to keep my attacker in place.
“Who the fuck are you?” Savin hissed, danger radiating from every pore.
Brandon coughed, bringing up blood that spilled from his mouth, and spat out, “No one you need to worry about.”
Savin, on hearing Brandon speak, looked back at Ilya and hissed, “Georgian.”
Savin got closer to Brandon’s paling face. “You’re the deliverer we’ve heard about? The Jakhua deliverer?”
Brandon, this time, lost his smug grin. His reaction said it all. He was exactly who Savin had accused him of being.
“What’s in the syringe?” Savin asked, but Brandon remained quiet. Savin, clearly losing his patience, sank his knife into Brandon’s lower stomach, slowly, inch by slow inch. Brandon gasped and cried out, then gritted his teeth.
He still said nothing.