Chapter 18 - Blood on the Rusted Metal
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My father didn't wait for his men. He threw open the door of the SUV and marched toward the crashed truck, his weapon drawn. I couldn't stay in the car anymore. The terror of not knowing if Daniel was safe overpowered my orders to hide.
I pushed the heavy door open and ran after my father, my heels slipping in the mud and freezing rain.
“Elena, get back in the car!” my father barked, but he didn't stop moving toward the wreckage.
Daniel was already there, pulling open the crumpled driver’s side door of the truck. The driver was dead, killed by Daniel’s precise shots. But Sergei Ivanov wasn't driving.
The back doors of the armored transport kicked open.
Sergei stumbled out, bleeding heavily from a deep gash on his forehead, clutching a heavy revolver. He was trapped, surrounded by my father’s men closing in from the warehouse, and facing Daniel and my father in the front.
“It’s over, Sergei,” my father said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that carried over the hiss of the rain. “Drop the weapon.”
Sergei laughed, a wet, manic sound. He looked around the shipping yard, realizing his empire was entirely in ashes.
“You think you won, Carter?” Sergei spat, blood dripping from his chin. “You think killing me changes anything? The Russians will send another boss. The New York families smell blood in the water. You showed weakness at that gala, Michael. You showed them you care about the girl more than the business.”
Sergei’s deranged eyes locked onto me, standing just behind my father. A twisted, hateful smile spread across his bruised face.
“If I die tonight,” Sergei snarled, raising his revolver, “I take the princess with me.”
He didn't aim at my father. He aimed directly at me.
Everything happened in a fraction of a microsecond.
I froze, staring down the dark barrel of the gun. My father shouted, raising his weapon, but he was too far to the left to block the shot.
Daniel moved.
He didn't fire. He threw his body violently forward, putting himself entirely between me and Sergei just as the deafening crack of the revolver echoed in the shipping yard.
Daniel jerked backward with a violent grunt, the impact of the bullet spinning him sideways. He collapsed onto the muddy concrete, clutching his side.
“DANIEL!” I screamed, a raw, agonizing sound tearing from my throat.
My father didn't hesitate for another millisecond. He fired twice.
The bullets struck Sergei squarely in the chest. The Russian boss’s eyes went blank, and he collapsed backward into the mud, dead before he hit the ground.
I didn't care about Sergei. I fell to my knees in the freezing mud beside Daniel. Blood was pooling rapidly beneath his hand, staining his white shirt a terrifying, dark crimson.
“Daniel, look at me,” I sobbed, pressing my hands frantically over his to stop the bleeding. “Please, look at me.”
Daniel opened his eyes. They were hazy with pain, but the fierce, protective light was still there. He coughed, a faint smile touching his pale lips.
“I told you,” Daniel whispered, his breathing shallow and ragged, “I wear Kevlar.”
He pulled his hand away slightly, revealing the shredded fabric of his shirt, exposing the heavy black ballistic vest beneath. The bullet had caught him in the side, breaking ribs and causing massive trauma, but it hadn't pierced his organs.
I let out a hysterical, broken laugh, burying my face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
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My father stood over us, lowering his smoking weapon. He looked at the dead Russian boss, then down at the man who had just taken a bullet for his daughter.
“Get him a medic,” my father ordered his approaching men, his voice heavy with profound, absolute respect. “And get my daughter home.”
