Did they think anyone would believe this was a simple home invasion? They must have.
Another one was breaking crystal glassware, one was pilfering all the silver, and the last was sampling all my liquor before grabbing a few thousand-dollar bottles of wine and putting them in his bag.
Whatever Solovyov wasn't going to pay them, it must not have been enough.
The temptation to say something cocky before opening fire was definitely there, but I was outnumbered and I had no idea how many others were in the house.
This wasn't fun, this was work.
I fired three shots in quick succession, first killing the two that were smashing plates and then the one who was about to put his dirty thieving hands on a bottle of Russian vodka. It was becoming increasingly difficult to get the good shit into the States beyond Customs, and I didn't want to have to pay another bribe.
The other two stopped, staring at me for a second and then scrambled to get to their guns.
I fired another two shots into each of their chests.
More voices called out, more were coming. It sounded like a lot.
The dining room that was once the portrait of elegance and charm was now ransacked. Broken dishes and bottles littered the floor, there were bullet holes in the walls and even the windows had been smashed, from the inside.
I had a feeling it was going to get a lot worse.
There was no more sneaking around, no more catching any of them off guard. It was time to make a stand and have the pigs come straight to the slaughter.
I grabbed the bottle of vodka, unscrewed the top and took a long swig before knocking over the dining room table, glass shards, china, and wood splintering and shattering. Then I grabbed one of the legs and pulled the table over to a wall, creating a makeshift foxhole.
This wouldn't have done shit if Solovyov had sent his men, but this solid oak table was more than capable of withstanding the toys these untrained children were armed with. Hell, the table might still be usable after this.
The first one ran in screaming like Rambo, shooting his gun in a rapid-fire hail of bullets that mostly embedded into the ceiling, sending plaster dust raining down. The fool was just swinging it all over the place.
I ducked behind the table and waited ten seconds for him to burn through the entire clip.
The second that telling click sounded, I popped up and shot him. He may have been the first in the room, but he wasn't the last. The second I popped up, more bullets came flying, this time toward me. Most of them missed.
Most of them.
I took a hit in my upper arm. It stung like a bitch, but I still had my full range of motion.
One of them was almost smart…almost.
While I was exchanging fire on one side, he ducked low and made his way to the other side of the table, flanking me as I reloaded. Too bad he didn't count on my second gun.
One more head shot, but not before he got in a shot of his own.
This one grazed deep into my side. Fucker. At least it didn’t penetrate my stomach. Stomach wounds were the worst. They were messy and if the bullet hit the intestine, the chances of dying from infection went up significantly. It was a slow and painful way to go.
I couldn’t let them get off any more shots.
Viktoria needed me alive.
For her I would live, though I would die before I admitted to Gregor that I now understood his change in priorities.
I slid the second magazine into place and got my feet under me, still crouched down behind the table. The bullet wound in my upper arm hurt like a bitch, but it was nothing compared to the one in my side. I was bleeding from both, far too much.
A man with less to lose would have stayed down, waited them out from behind cover, picking them off one by one and praying help got there in time.
I had something to lose that was far more valuable than my life.
Her life.
