Текст книги "Sons of Anarchy. Bratva"

Автор книги: Christopher Golden

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

“No way is Lagoshin camping out on the Strip,” Jax said, glancing over his shoulder at Luka. “What are you up to, asshole?”

“Go left,” Luka replied in English.

Ilia complied, and moments later they were rolling through a neighborhood of faded office buildings and auto body shops. Luka’s cell buzzed again. Another text from VK: Call in now. We’re moving.

The breath caught in Jax’s throat. He drew his gun as he turned on the seat. Oleg glanced up in alarm and Ilia twitched at the steering wheel, but by then Jax already had his gun aimed at Luka.

“What are you doing, Jax?” Oleg asked warily.

Jax ignored him, focused on Luka. “Krupin says they’re ‘moving.’ Where would they be moving?”

Luka smiled thinly, pure arrogance in his eyes.

Jax aimed the gun at his chest. Oleg jammed his gun in Luka’s side.

“Talk to me, asshole,” Jax said. “I don’t need you the way these guys do.”

At that, Luka’s smile broadened, but still he said nothing.

Jax stiffened, thinking hard. Trying to figure out a way that this did not mean what he feared it meant. He slid back into his seat, dropped Luka’s phone, and dug out his own.

“Who are you calling?” Oleg demanded, his own suspicion rising.

Jax found the contact he sought on his phone and hit CALL.

“Krupin says they’re moving. What if Lagoshin got a line on where you’ve been holed up? Trinity’s back there alone. I’m calling in some protection.”

Many Russians were pale complexioned by nature. Oleg grew paler.

“She is your sister,” he said. “You’re not going to demand we turn around?”

Jax tightened his grip on his gun. “Would you do it?”

Oleg pressed his lips into a thin line. He loved her, but there was nothing he could do, and nothing he could say.

The phone kept ringing. Jax listened, praying that it would be picked up.

* * *

Drinkwater had been duct-taped to a chair. His arms, legs, and torso had been taped down in three different colors, and an old-fashioned paisley necktie had been used to gag him. It wouldn’t have kept him from screaming, and, given time, he would’ve been able to get his mouth free—shout for help—so it seemed strange that whoever had done the very thorough duct-taping had chosen the tie.

Rollie stood in Drinkwater’s bedroom and stared at the two bullet holes in the man’s face, one in the forehead and one where his left eye ought to have been. The bullets had blown out the back of his skull.

Messy, he thought. Why be so meticulous about binding him… why bother with a gag at all… if this was how it was going to end?

Unless the shooter hadn’t intended for it to end this way.

Which made no sense. It wasn’t as if Drinkwater could have lunged at his killer—not with the duct tape strapping him to the chair.

Rollie scratched at his ample gut, then glanced around the bedroom. Whoever had killed Drinkwater, they’d gotten what they came for. The room seemed undisturbed except for the dead man and his gore. Drinkwater had answered his killer’s questions.

If the killer had questions. Maybe this was about nobody else getting the answers. That felt right.

“Look around,” Rollie told Thor. “Make it quick. The longer we stay, the more chance there is of something going wrong.”

Thor started checking the pockets of jackets and searching night-table drawers. They’d left Bronson, Baghead, and the prospect at a small park down the street, and it wouldn’t be long before their presence unnerved someone enough to call the PD.

Rollie bent to take a closer look at the corpse. He reached out and used a knuckle to drag down the edge of the paisley tie, still trying to work out the duct-tape question. Wherever the duct tape had come from, the killer hadn’t run out of it. Two of the three rolls on the floor still had tape on them. So why choose the tie?

He heard Thor’s phone buzz and glanced up.

“Just Hopper,” Thor said before he answered.

Rollie went about his business, half-listening to Thor’s calm responses to Hopper’s report. Still focused on the tie, he opened a wardrobe and glanced inside. Jackets, suits, shoes on the bottom… and many, many ties. Nothing seemed out of place.

He glanced up as Thor finished the call with Hopper.

“Any leads on Jax?” Rollie asked.

Thor shook his head. “Bag talked to this cocktail waitress he used to bang at Lucky Pete’s. Bartender there is Ukrainian or something, apparently knows Viktor Krupin. We should be able to track down Krupin, at least reach out to him—”

“It’d have to be damn fast to be any use to us,” Rollie said, “but we’ll see what he turns up.”

Thor bounced from foot to foot, anxious to be leaving. Rollie felt the same—it had been risky even coming here, and now that they’d found Drinkwater dead, the potential for a murder charge weighed heavily.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Where to?”

“No choice,” Rollie said. “If we’re gonna find Jax, we have to call our friends in Charming.”

“If he’s behind this, and Clay is backing him—”

“Jax and his buddies came here incognito—no cuts,” Rollie said. “If he’s betrayed us, there’s no reason for us to think the rest of SAMCRO is involved, especially not Clay.”

Rollie didn’t give Thor a chance to argue. He moved swiftly out of the bedroom and into the corridor, retracing their steps.

In his pocket, his own cell phone buzzed. He thought it must be Hopper again, though it occurred to him to wonder why Hopper wouldn’t just call Thor directly again.

Rollie answered. “Speak.”

“It’s Jax.”

“Where the hell are you?” Rollie demanded.

Thor stared. “It’s him?”

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Jax said.

“You owe me some answers, kid—”

“We need backup, Rollie. I hope Thor gave you that message. We need bodies, and we need guns. You know the old Wonderland Hotel in North Vegas, out west of your place?”

“Hold up a second.”

“Rollie—”

“Joyce is dead. Died helping you out. I want to know—”

“Joyce was a rat,” Jax said angrily.

“The fuck he was.”

“Lagoshin knew where to find us. Joyce told him. Unless you want to tell me you also didn’t know the guy was selling drugs at Birdland.”

Rollie went silent.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Jax went on. “Lagoshin’s crew killed him, and they’ll kill the rest of us if they can. I told you they went after me and Opie the other day. We’re on our way to erase Lagoshin from the picture, but I think some of his men may be headed for the Wonderland, and my sister’s there alone. I need some of your guys over there, and the rest to meet up with us to take out Lagoshin.”

Rollie stared at the spray pattern of blood and brain matter in the bedroom. The air-conditioning had kicked in, but still the stink made him want to retch. He tried to picture Joyce and the dead Russian out on that ranch road, tried to puzzle out how many motorcycles had been there, how it had all unfolded.

“You hearing me?” Jax asked.

“I hear you.”

“Where are you now?”

“At your friend Drinkwater’s house,” Rollie replied.

* * *

Jax shifted the visor around to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare.

“What the hell are you doing there?” he asked, glancing at the dashboard clock. Still so early. It made no sense for Rollie to be at Drinkwater’s. Thor knew the name from their meet with Carney, but—

“Trying to track you down, Jax. Trying to figure out how one of my guys ended up dead in a ditch. Especially since Mr. Drinkwater’s too dead to tell me anything.”

Jax’s mouth went dry. “You killed him?”

“Are you just screwing with me now?” Rollie snapped. “The guy’s brains are all over the place. What are you up to, Jax?”

Numb, Jax tried to pull his thoughts together. “How did you end up there?”

“Oh, we stopped at the old Irishman’s place first. He’s dead, too.”

Jax’s thoughts spun. Who had killed Drinkwater and Carney? There could be only one answer. Just as there could be no doubt that Drinkwater had given his killers the answers they sought.

“Rollie, listen to me—”

“Oh, I’m listening, Jackson.”

“Get to the Wonderland with every gun you’ve got! I’ll call you back!”

Rollie started to argue, but Jax cut off the call. He spun to stare at Ilia: “Turn around! Do it now!”

In the backseat, Luka started to laugh behind his fresh gag. Oleg ignored him, leaning forward, alarm igniting in his eyes.

“Lagoshin knows about the hotel?” Oleg demanded.

Jax turned to stare at him, the ugliest scenarios playing out in his head. “Shit yeah he knows. Hell, they might be there already…”

He saw the realization in Oleg’s eyes. They had left Trinity alone.

“Turn around!” Oleg snapped, and, at his command, Ilia finally did.

Car tires squealed. Oleg took out his cell and started calling Kirill and the others.

Luka lunged, slammed Oleg against the window. Wrists bound, he struggled to snatch Oleg’s gun. Jax swore, bringing his own gun around, but he didn’t need it. Oleg planted his feet, pistoned his legs, and drove Luka across the seat and into the opposite door. Luka’s head struck the window, cracking the glass.

Oleg raised his gun and shot Luka twice in the chest, reached over to open the door, and then shoved the dying, bleeding man out onto the street as the car roared along at seventy miles per hour and more.

Luka had outlived his usefulness.

Oleg slammed the door shut and steadied himself with a deep breath. He and Jax exchanged a glance, and Jax knew, in that moment, that the two of them wanted the same thing. Lagoshin had to die, and Trinity had to live.

* * *

Rollie stood in the hall, gazing back through the door into the dead man’s bedroom, cell phone dangling in his right hand. His whole body seemed to vibrate with uncertainty and indecision.

“So?” Thor asked.

“Jax and his boys are in trouble, and he expects us to be the cavalry.”

Thor came to stand in front of Rollie expectantly. “You really think he’s doing all of this? That all these bodies are on his head?”

Rollie stared into the bedroom, focused on the hole where Drinkwater’s eye had been. “I think these guys are all dead because Jax Teller came to town looking for his sister. I’m not blaming him for that—I’d do the same for family, and so would you. But something doesn’t sit right about the way Izzo described the scene out on that ranch road, and Jax isn’t in a hurry to explain. Yeah, he’s got other shit on his mind, but…”

His words trailed off. He stared at his feet a few seconds, listening to the ticking of a wall clock up at the top of the stairs ahead. The AC kicked on and cool air hummed from the vents. Rollie blinked and shook off the cloud of indecision. Whatever they were going to do, they had to get the hell out of here.

“Let’s roll,” he said.

Thor followed him down the stairs. “We’re going to back him up?”

“He’s VP of SAMCRO. Of course we’re going to back him up,” Rollie said. “But I feel like we’re being played, so afterward I intend to get answers, even if I have to stomp the shit out of Jax Teller to get them.”

* * *

Trinity sat on the swing set behind the Wonderland in a dirty T-shirt and a pair of black jeans. Her combat boots were comfortable enough, but too hot. She’d put them on because of the terrain and the broken glass out near the swing set, but now she wished she had something lighter.

She pushed back until she could barely touch the ground and then released, swinging forward and pumping her legs. The rusty swing squealed with each pendulous motion, but she relished the breeze on her face. The sun had come on strong this morning, and she could already tell the day would be scorching. Heat radiated up off the cracked concrete around the swing set.

Before they’d all left this morning, she’d been pissed off about being left alone. Oleg had thought she was afraid—which made no sense, given that they were the ones who had tracked down Lagoshin and were going to war. She’d had to explain to him, and not for the first time, that she just didn’t like being left behind.

You’re not a soldier, he’d reminded her.

I didn’t prove myself at Temple’s ranch? she’d demanded.

Then she had seen the pain in his face. He’d told her that he had never wanted to put her in a position where she had to take a life. I didn’t think that was the way you wanted to live, he’d said, and then he’d asked her, politely, to stay behind.

Oleg didn’t just want her to stay out of the line of fire. He didn’t want her to have to kill anyone else.

She’d stayed behind.

Now that they were gone, though, she didn’t mind being alone. All the anxiety and drama, the entirely rational fear that rippled beneath the skin of every one of Oleg’s brothers—not to mention Oleg himself—had created a tension in her unlike anything she’d felt before. Jax’s arrival had only added to the tension, happy as she’d been to see him.

Alone, she thought. Alone feels good.

They’ll be all right. And then it will be over. No more Wonderland Hotel. Maybe no more Las Vegas. She hoped to spend time in California, see the American west coast. She spent half a dozen lovely minutes on the swing, but she could feel the way the sun had begun to bake her pale Irish skin.

Her stomach rumbled.

After breakfast, she’d decide what to do with the next few hours of her life. Trinity stood up from the swing and then froze.

Car engines rumbled out in front of the hotel. She could hear them. Car engines alone were not a surprise—during the day the road got its meager share of traffic—but these weren’t passing by. They were in the parking lot.

One by one, the engines went silent. If she’d stayed on the swing with its squealing hinges for another few seconds, she’d have missed the sound entirely.

Car doors slammed.

For half a second, she let herself think that the guys had all come back, but she knew it was much too soon. It couldn’t be them.

Alone, she thought again. There were plenty of guns inside the hotel, but she was in back, fooling around on the damn swing set. If she had the keys to the one remaining car, the old BMW only forty feet from her right now, she might have been able to get the jump on them, outrace them until she got somewhere they didn’t dare attack her. Somewhere she’d be safe for the time being. But she didn’t have the keys.

Trinity bolted for the back door of the hotel, counting her steps, telling herself that the men out front would approach slowly and cautiously and so she had time. Seconds, at least. A handful of seconds. Her heart slammed against the inside of her chest, and her thoughts went through the layout of the hotel, trying to figure out a place she could hide. They’d never planned for this. To defend an assault, yes—but she’d never be able to keep them from entering the hotel on her own. No, if they were coming in—and they were coming in—she needed a gun and a place to hide.

Only when she’d reached the door and ducked quietly inside, her senses attuned to the approach of the killers out front, did she realize that she’d gone the wrong direction. She could have run into the scrubland, found a place to hide herself while they searched the hotel and found nothing. If she’d had to, she could have hidden until Oleg and Kirill and Jax and the others came back—they’d have to come back eventually—but she was committed now.

A gun. A place to hide.

If only she could have heard her own thoughts over the thundering of her heart.

17

Trinity slipped through the door at the back of the lobby and dropped into a crouch, her pulse throbbing at her temples. To her right, half the lobby remained curtained off from the outside world by heavy drapes, but if she wanted to get deeper into the hotel, she had to go left—and that meant running past a stretch of windows that were uncovered. Sunlight poured in. Dust motes swam and danced in the vast shaft of light, as if drawn to it like moths to a flame.

She kept low and went left, hustled to the front desk and then dove over it, sliding on her belly. She reached down to break her fall but still thumped onto the old carpet, twisting her head so she landed on her shoulder. Her legs came down on top of her, and she spun around, back against the counter, waiting for gunshots and shattering glass.

Nothing.

“Okay, okay,” she said, just to hear the whisper of her own voice.

She darted along behind the counter, trying to picture that vast front window and how far across the lobby the counter would take her—how much distance she would have to cover in the open, where they might see her. Fifteen feet, maybe, until she disappeared into the corridor. Unless they were already inside by then. She had no time to lose… and yet she hesitated.

Growing up, she’d heard ugly stories about assassinations and bombings and brutal beatings that had filtered into her nightmares and daydreams. The nearness of such crimes had a greater potency than lullabies and bedtime stories. Trinity had understood quite young that she would have to take care of herself. She was able, and more than willing.

But in that moment behind the counter, what haunted her was that for all the crimes and punishments that the RIRA had doled out—or that she’d heard about—the whispers about the Bratva were worse. If Lagoshin and Krupin got their hands on her, she would be used to send a message to Kirill and Oleg. Would they cut off her hands and feet and breasts? Would they set her on fire?

She exhaled, shivering with a chill that should have been impossible with the heat of the day radiating through the windows.

If she’d been Krupin’s girlfriend and the situation were reversed, what would Oleg have done to her?

The question made her want to scream, but worse than that was the idea that whatever harm, whatever obscenity might be perpetrated upon her, it would be to use her as a tool, a message, an example. If she was going to die like this, she wanted it to be because of things she’d done, not whom she was sleeping with.

Keeping low, she rushed along behind the counter and then popped her head up. Through the plate-glass windows, she could see a massive black SUV and a charcoal-gray sedan, but they were off to the right. Men were standing behind them, but she was in the shadows, and she thought they might not see her. A pair of gunmen ran from the sedan to circle around the hotel. She waited, holding her breath while they passed, and then she was up and over the counter.

Trinity hit the floor in a tumble, came up on one knee and glanced at the windows again. How many cars, how many men? It didn’t matter, really. The answer was too many.

She bolted, willing them not to see her. She expected shouting and gunshots, but then she darted into the corridor, felt the crunch of crusty old carpet under her boots, and knew she was clear.

Gun.

It was the only word in her head. Her right hand clenched and unclenched, yearning for the weight of a weapon. Guns are hateful things, Maureen Ashby had always said to young Trinity, but remember, love, that bullets are like presents—better to give than receive. It was how Maureen had justified so much of the family’s violence.

Trinity reached her room, twisted the knob, slipped inside without banging the door. Her gun was where she’d left it, top shelf of the closet underneath a leather jacket she’d had no use for since they’d arrived in Vegas. Loaded, always.

She was out in the corridor in a handful of heartbeats, glancing both ways. Slipping into the hallway, she heard glass shatter in the lobby, and suddenly her options had narrowed. Lagoshin’s men were coming in. They’d search the hotel. Trinity couldn’t shoot her way out, which meant the only question that mattered was: Where could she hide? Where could she tuck herself away and still have an exit strategy?

Elevator shaft? The doors were wedged open, and she could get in, maybe drop down to the elevator itself, hide in the dark. But where the hell could she run from there?

Walk-in freezer in the kitchen? Dead end. As was every bathroom and guest room, all of which they’d search. Doors banged open. She heard wood splinter.

Upstairs.

She bolted past the alcove with the ice machine and a dusty-faced Coke machine. A voice shouted in Russian, profanity that she’d become more than familiar with. Trinity glanced to her left, saw the window and the tree beyond it—saw the Bratva killer beyond the tree and the way he stared. He pointed at the window, at her, shouting, and all choice had been taken from her. She ran to the z junction in the hallway, jogged right, hidden from all eyes, and then shoved through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Service stairs.

Exhaling, she ran, hating even the quiet scuffing of her boots on the steps. Second floor. Third floor. So much for her one asset, them not knowing she was there.

A small door—strangely small—on the third floor landing of the service stairs. She tried the latch and blinked in surprise when it opened. Gray light filtered through some kind of venting at the top of the stairwell, and a fraction of it came down inside the room on the other side of that door.

Not a room. A shaft. Service elevator.

Jamming her gun into the waistband of her jeans, Trinity climbed into that near darkness. Dusty metal rungs ran up and down the interior wall, just to her right, and she grabbed hold, reached out, and pulled the small door closed.

Up was the only option. Not a good one, but there were no good options here.

The metal rungs were cold to the touch. She moved fast, the gun jamming into her with every step. Fourth floor. Fifth floor, and it was taking too long. They’d be searching everywhere by now. Banging open doors and looking under beds.

Top of the shaft, beneath the mechanisms of the elevator and the vents that let in that dim gray light, she felt around and found a latch—another small door. She twisted it, put her weight into it, and the metal screeched as she forced it open. Blinking against the bright sunlight, she poured herself through the tiny door and found herself in a small alcove on the roof. Tucked between the elevator housing and the angled structure where the service stairs exited the roof, she was hidden from sight on three sides.

The sun had been cooking the top of the building for hours, and the heat baked up from every surface. Still, she took a moment to breathe. Hidden there, she felt as if she could just wait for help to arrive or for the intruders to give up and leave. If she hadn’t been seen, she might have been able to do just that.

But she had been seen. They knew she was in the building, and it wouldn’t be long before one of them came up to search the roof. When that happened, the alcove would not keep her hidden… it would keep her cornered.

She drew her gun and stepped from the alcove, glanced around and then hurried toward the front of the building.

The Wonderland Hotel varied in height from back to front. At the edge of the rearmost section, Trinity stared down along the Spanish tiles that sloped to the third floor and wondered if she could scramble down them without falling. From there, she could drop down on top of the portico breezeway at the front, where cars had once pulled up so bellmen could take their luggage. If she was quiet… if she was careful to wait until nobody was in sight… she might make it to one of their cars. Were any of the engines still running?

Don’t think—move!

Carefully, she put one tentative foot on the sloping tiles, then realized that she needed to sit—to slide down instead of trying to stay on her feet. It might make more noise, but there was less chance of dying in the attempt.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Then she heard the engines. The low rumble of an approaching car. The grinding, growling roar of a couple of Harley-Davidsons.

Hope flickered inside her, and she glanced up. Four cars and two motorcycles. Her boys would be outnumbered, but they were coming. She didn’t even need to warn them because they’d see the cars out front.

The service door clanged open behind her.

Trinity’s heart went still. Her grip on the gun tightened and she spun around, taking aim even as she did so. The blond guy who’d come out onto the roof hadn’t really expected to find her there, so he wasted a couple of seconds blinking at the sudden reality of her presence before he swung his gun toward her.

She pulled the trigger three times and managed to shoot him once, in the left leg. The sound of the bullet tearing wetly into flesh made her feel sick. The pain and the impact toppled him sideways, and he slammed to the roof with a grunt. His gun flew from his fingers and skittered a few feet from him. Wounded, trailing blood, he scrabbled toward the gun, calling her bitch, whore, and worse in his own language—why had she only learned the ugly words?

Trinity dashed toward him, gripping her gun in both hands, and aimed it at his head.

“Another inch and you die now,” she said, with a ferocity she promised herself she didn’t really feel. She wasn’t really like that, didn’t have the savagery inside that her bloodline on both sides would suggest. Just as she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t really have taken out Luka’s eye with a knife. This isn’t me, she thought.

He moved and she pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the roof inches from his shoulder, threw up divots of concrete. The blond Russian hesitated, glancing at her. Trinity stepped closer.

“We’re just gonna stay right here until it’s over,” she told him.

He sagged, seemed to give up, and then he planted his hands on the roof and swung his good leg out, struck her calves, and swept her off her feet. Trinity fell on her hip and smashed an elbow on the roof, but she did not let go of the gun. Blondie snagged her ankle, and only then did she see the knife that had appeared in his right hand.

The blade came down, and the gleaming steel bit into her left thigh.

Trinity screamed. Then she shot him in the face.

* * *

Jax clutched his cell phone. “You see this?”

Ilia responded, but Jax hadn’t been speaking to the Russian behind the wheel. He had Kirill on the line, and the Bratva captain started talking fast, his clipped tones blocking out anything Ilia might have said.

“Done,” Jax said, tossing the phone to the floor.

He picked up his gun as the car roared toward the Wonderland Hotel. The mountains wavered in the heat-hazed distance, but his focus was on the figures moving around the edges of the hotel. Someone darted out from behind the building, saw the cars and Harleys coming, and then vanished again. In front of the hotel, a pair of figures stood in front of the black Escalade with guns strapped across their backs, and Jax felt his insides freeze. Assault rifles. His 9mm handgun had stopping power, but not if he never got a chance to use it. And he’d never reach the fancy Russian AR that Oleg had given him before the enemy opened fire.

“Kirill says we take the back,” Jax said, raising his voice to be heard over the engine’s roar. “They’ve got the front.”

Oleg slapped his hand on the driver’s headrest. “You heard him. Go!”

Ilia twisted the wheel to the right, ignoring the parking lot. Ilia steered them into a delivery lane, rear wheels slewing and screeching on pavement. Jax saw movement in the backseat and glanced over to see Oleg pulling a new Kalashnikov AK-12 from under the seat. It gleamed, even newer than the one Jax had left in the trunk.

“Where the hell’d you get that?” he asked. “I didn’t think they’d made more than the prototypes for it.”

“This is a prototype,” Oleg said. “Call this a field test.”

The men by the Escalade opened fire. Bullets tore up the street and the burnt grass beside the hotel. Ilia and Oleg ducked, and the rear passenger window blew in, tiny bits of glass spraying all over the interior. Jax watched the other three cars race toward the hotel, the Mercedes turning into the circular drive as bullets strafed it. The RAV4 slid past. Guns thrust from windows spat bullets rapid-fire, but the RAV4 wasn’t stopping or slowing. It sailed by and turned, heading for the other side of the building.

Jax worried about Chibs and Opie, glanced back and saw that they’d turned to follow him, Oleg, and Ilia. The Harleys roared up beside them, using the car as a shield. Smart. Stay alive, he thought.

Oleg shoved the AK-12’s nose out the window and opened fire, strafing the Escalade. One of the men stood his ground and fired back, but the other ran for cover, trying to get behind the giant SUV. The Mercedes—with Gavril at the wheel and Kirill firing out the window—slammed into the man and then into the Escalade, sandwiching him between the two vehicles in a scream of metal and human anguish.

Then they were alongside the hotel and out of sight of the melee out front.

“Here we go,” Ilia said, cutting the wheel to the left as they turned, skidding around the corner. The fence around the empty swimming pool loomed ahead.

“Kitchen door,” Oleg said. “Close as you can.”

Ilia said nothing, only nodded grimly.

Jax felt a dreadful calm descend upon him. The job was killing. The path from here to the other side of this chaos would be one of unhesitating bloodshed. He’d been down this path before.

His jaw tightened. His heart calmed. The car skidded to a halt. Jax was out the door before Ilia had a chance to throw it into park. Cold inside, he felt the sun baking his skin. The world seemed to shift into lower gear. He called for Ilia to open the trunk and was headed around the back of the car when he saw one of Lagoshin’s men come around the side of the Dumpster, tall and pale with thinning hair and pockmarked skin. Jax shot him twice. The man pulled his own trigger as he went down, blowing in the Audi’s windshield and putting a bullet so close to Jax that it zipped over his left shoulder.

Jax glanced down, saw the furrow in the fabric of his shirt, saw the blood welling and soaking into the fabric, and realized the furrow had been dug not just in cloth but in skin.

He bled, and he moved, running to the trunk. He jammed his handgun into his waistband and pulled the assault rifle Oleg had given him out of the trunk. Then he ran for the hotel.

Ilia and Oleg were ahead of him, yanking open the kitchen door, whose frame had already been shattered by the intruders. Motion in his peripheral vision made him glance left, and he saw Opie and Chibs running toward him, and suddenly he woke from the strange, dreamlike feeling that had enveloped him. He felt the searing pain of his wound and smelled the copper of his own blood and the smell of cordite.