Bone Rider (35 page)

“Does your Russian friend know you went off the reservation?” J.C. inquired quietly. “Because he very politely asked permission for your boss to be allowed into the compound and I didn’t know better so I granted it.”

Andrej blinked. “I’m gonna need that cheat sheet now, J.C.”

“
K
OLYA
what
?”

The hits just kept on coming. Misha might’ve been able to appreciate the irony if they had been coming at someone else. As it was, he had to struggle not to yell at the messenger. He didn’t, mostly because Andrej would’ve yelled right back. He didn’t take Misha’s shit as a matter of principle. But come on. Somebody give him a break. Misha hadn’t even had a chance yet to digest the whole alien armor system thing.

Andrej scowled. “For once, I can’t even blame him. We shouldn’t have kept him in the dark.” He glanced at Riley. It looked casual, uninterested even, but Misha didn’t miss the quick once-over or the way that keen gaze stuttered for a moment when it scanned for a goose egg and a bruise that weren’t there anymore. Goddamn it.

“Hi, Riley. Feeling better?”

Riley smiled tightly and inclined his head. “Andrej.”

Awkward was too kind a word for the situation. Misha muttered a curse under his breath and gently herded Riley toward the door before the two most important people in his life could do or say something that would annihilate the
status quo
.

“We gotta move. You do
not
want to meet Anton. Or my family.”

“You really don’t,” Andrej confirmed, agreeably enough. “They’re probably out to kill you.”

“Who isn’t?” Riley muttered, but he snatched up his duffel without a protest and headed out of the room.

“Whoa. Wait.” Misha shoved his own gun into his waistband and reached into Riley’s bag to dig out the H&K. “Ammo?”

“Right inner pocket.” Riley frowned. “I thought we were in a hurry.”

“We are.”

Yep, there it was, right next to the goddamn flash drive; a fully loaded magazine and a box of extras that felt at least half full. Misha inserted the magazine and chambered a round as they walked, ignoring the two incredulous stares leveled at him. He didn’t care how bulletproof Riley thought he was, Riley was not walking out there unarmed, and Misha was too tense to let anybody else handle a weapon right then. Hell, if he’d known how, he’d have run a systems check on McClane to make sure Riley was going to be as well protected as possible.

He handed back the gun with a quick caress of his fingers against Riley’s palm. Riley didn’t shy away from his touch. Riley even swayed closer as he tucked the gun into his waistband; just a bit so their shoulders brushed as they walked, as though maybe, just maybe, he still wanted this too. Had missed Misha as badly as Misha had missed him. It was a thin hope. It was plenty. Misha could work with this. He couldn’t change who he was or what he’d done, but he could use it. If anybody had a chance of keeping Riley and his alien squatter safe against these overwhelming odds, it had to be a trained killer, and Misha found he kind of liked the idea of using his skills for protection for a change.

“Do we have an exit?”

“Depends on who’s driving; Anton or Mari.” Andrej glanced at his watch and grimaced. “Shit. Either way, we better hurry.”

The heavy entrance doors swung open with a quiet whisper of well-oiled metal hinges and the three of them spilled out into the late afternoon sunlight only to come to an abrupt stop at the top of the stairs.

Vasiliy hadn’t skimped on the accessories. He stood flanked by Mari and Anton Kulik, half a dozen familiar gunmen behind him. Most of them seemed a little uncomfortable, probably because J.C.’s men were oh-so-casually ambling closer in groups and pairs, their hands on their weapons. They wouldn’t be fast enough, Misha knew. Not if Vasiliy had already given his orders. Anton was a weapon—Vasiliy’s weapon—and he was wicked fast. Misha stepped in front of Riley instinctively. Not much of a barrier, but it might make Anton hesitate for that one critical second. Behind him, Riley muttered something that sounded a lot like, “No. No preemptive strikes, either.”

“McClane. See the old guy with the scars on his cheeks?” Misha breathed. “This goes south, he’s the first one you kill.”

Riley made a rough little sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Don’t encourage him.”

Misha chanced a look at Kolya and found him standing to the side with his arms crossed and his legs braced, completely impassive. A pair of mirrored sunglasses made it impossible to say whether Kolya was looking back, but there was something in the set of those wide shoulders and the rigid line of his back that told Misha the man was absolutely furious. Crap. He didn’t want to fight Kolya too. He would if he had to, but he’d really rather not.

For a short, crazy moment, Misha seriously considered pulling his gun and shooting Anton in the head before anybody could so much as open their mouth to say hello. He could handle his father, he could negotiate with his sister, but Kulik didn’t talk. Kulik killed. Taking him out before he could do his thing was the smartest thing to do. Of course, if Misha up and shot the bastard without provocation right in front of Riley, Misha’s family was going to be the least of his problems.

“Mikhail,” his father said, all jovial boom and open arms, as if he wasn’t completely out of his element and seriously outgunned. “I see you found what you were looking for. Excellent!”

His gaze traveled over what he could see of Riley with such cold calculation Misha widened his stance immediately and shifted to hide as much of Riley from that dangerous scrutiny as he could. Naturally, Riley didn’t appreciate the gesture and ruined it by casually moving out from behind the shield of Misha’s body to plant himself firmly beside him. He’d dropped the duffel bag with his few remaining possessions and Misha could hear a soft thump and the slide of cloth over dirt when Andrej kicked it out of the way. Misha desperately wanted to glance over and check just how mad Riley was by this point, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off Anton.

“Yeah,” he said, mind racing desperately to find a way out of this that wouldn’t end in a lot of people dying. “I found him.” Anton was staring at Riley with a completely unreadable expression, but he wasn’t going for his gun yet. Misha was willing to count that as a win. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, Misha, aren’t you happy to see your father?”

Enough sarcasm there to drown a horse, and a vicious anger that promised blood and vengeance and was aimed almost exclusively at Riley. Riley, who didn’t flinch and didn’t budge an inch, who was no doubt returning Vasiliy’s stare with that particularly charming expression of his that said he was seeing something pretty disgusting, something he was likely going to be scraping off his boots in a minute or two. Riley’s survival instincts were a little subpar, sometimes.

Misha nodded his head at the group of gunmen lined up behind his father. He’d worked with all of them before, had hired half of them personally. Talk about adding insult to injury. “What’s with the entourage?”

“I thought you might need help. Didn’t want you to be late to your mother’s party. You know how she gets.”

Another sweeping gesture, all flash and flare, but Misha knew how this worked, had seen the two of them in action, and so he kept his eyes firmly on Anton. His adrenaline levels were climbing steadily and with them the slow, sharp increase in focus that came before a kill. He realized he’d already made his choice, somewhere between the diner blowing up and the sweet rush of Riley’s mouth against his, warm and alive. He’d thought he’d have more time to prepare, was all. He’d hoped he’d get to give Kolya and Andrej the chance to get out while they still could. Too late now.

“Fuck the party.” Misha smiled at his father. There was a peculiar freedom in stepping over the line. “And fuck you. I quit.”

He was aware of Mari’s tiny smirk, a brief huff from the direction of Kolya, and the soft click of Andrej moving the safety lever of his gun. J.C.’s watchful presence and the wall of weapons with him. The gob-smacked stares of his father’s men and the way Vasiliy’s face was turning purple. All of this remained at the periphery of his perception, though. The only two people who really counted were Riley and Anton, in that order.

Riley twitched when Misha made his declaration, just a little, and sucked in a quick, unsteady breath.

Anton smiled.

He was fast. So damn fast at an age where he should’ve slowed down, should’ve been easier to beat. There was a gun in Anton’s hand and it was aimed at Riley’s heart—Riley, who stood tall and unprotected (where was the fucking armor, why wasn’t McClane taking care of Riley, what the
fuck
?), but something made Anton stop before he pulled the trigger… and it wasn’t the gun Misha was pointing at his head.

“Drop it,” Kolya ordered, quiet and reasonable.

Vasiliy turned yet another shade of red. “You work for me. You fucking work for
me
, Nikolai.”

The muzzle of the Beretta aimed at his temple didn’t move.

“Worked,” Kolya corrected dispassionately. “Apparently, we quit.”

Anton took in the tableau—the gun trained on him, the gun trained on Vasiliy, Riley holding his ground silent and watchful at Misha’s right—and barked out a single, grating laugh that made Misha’s hackles rise.

“Well played, pup.”

Misha’s finger tightened on the trigger, because there was a fucking gun aimed at Riley and McClane
still
wasn’t anywhere in sight, not so much as a flash of silver in Riley’s eyes, and Misha couldn’t stand it, couldn’t deal with it, not so soon after he’d watched Riley nearly die. He wanted to shoot Anton, wanted to put a bullet in the bastard’s head so he wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore, about turning around one day to find Riley dead and Anton standing over him with that smile on his face.

“
Drop it
, Anton.”

Anton chuckled and lowered his arm.

“Misha.” There was plenty of anger in his father’s voice, but it was outweighed now by disappointment, and even though Misha had made his decision knowing what he’d have to give up, it still hurt. All his life, he’d tried to make his papa proud of him. He’d taken the beatings, absorbed the lessons, let those two grizzled Russian wolves shape him into a weapon of their own design, and he’d soaked up the rare praise and thrived on every hint of approval. Whatever worth he’d gained, though, he’d just lost it.

So be it.

He eased his finger off the trigger and carefully, deliberately engaged the safety. Didn’t look away from Anton, because he wasn’t stupid, but angled his body so he had a better line of sight at the area beyond.

“J.C.?”

J.C. took a step forward, not so subtly reminding everybody that, yes, there was another crew here, and they were armed to the teeth, thank you very much. He looked reassuringly unruffled, as if a mafia family drama wasn’t anything new or noteworthy at all.

“Yeah?”

“We need safe passage.”

And an invisibility cloak, Misha thought grimly, but he’d take what he could get.

“I get a say,” Riley growled, apropos of nothing, “and I say no.”

Everybody stared at him.

Riley glared back balefully and shifted closer to Misha, who had to fight the instinct to reach out and pull him even closer. His face must’ve betrayed something of his desires, though, because his father tensed up noticeably.

“Don’t do this,” Vasiliy ordered, his dark eyes fixed on his rebellious son, suddenly not quite so confident in his ability to call Misha to heel. “No cunt is worth this, Mikhail.”

Misha’s hand clenched around the grip of his gun, but Riley’s soft, derisive snort diffused his anger somewhat.
Just a word
, he reminded himself. If Riley could dismiss it so easily, then so could Misha. They had more pressing problems than Vasiliy’s diction.

Apparently, McClane didn’t quite agree with that sentiment.

“No,” Riley said, sounding faintly impatient, “you can’t kill him, either.”

This time, the stares were distinctly uncomfortable.

Misha, who would’ve given a lot to be privy to McClane’s side of the conversation, patted Riley’s shoulder consolingly then sneakily curled his fingers around the taut curve of Riley’s neck and kept them there. Just making sure Riley was fine.

“Don’t worry, McClane. The way things are going, you’ll get to do your part,” he murmured, and he could’ve sworn the skin under his hand turned smoothly metallic for a moment in response.

“You leave whenever you want, kid,” J.C. chipped in, completely ignoring the byplay. “Your daddy and his party will stay overnight. Hell, I think I even got a bottle of vodka for him somewhere. He looks like he’ll need it.”

Misha wanted to smile, but couldn’t. This was it. No turning back. He glanced at his sister and found her looking both satisfied and a little wistful.
Good luck
, she mouthed, and suddenly Misha managed a smile after all.

“I love you,” he told them, because chances were this was the last time he’d have the opportunity to let them know. And then, because he also needed to make sure they knew the score, he added, “Anybody comes after Riley, I’ll kill them.”

Riley’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. For a second, Misha thought it was meant to reassure him and while the idea made his heart pitter-patter joyfully, he also made a mental note to let Riley know not to hobble Misha’s gun hand when showing his support.

“We gotta go.
Now
,” Riley whispered tersely, and that busted that bubble.

Misha frowned. “I know. We’re leaving. I just gotta—”

The grip tightened, reminding Misha once again that the man used to wrangle big-ass animals for a living. There might’ve been a hint of metal. He didn’t look down to check.

“Helicopters,” Riley snapped. “An even dozen. We gotta
go
.”

Heli—
Shit
.

“How close?”

Misha scanned the sky, listened hard, but he couldn’t hear anything yet except for a distant rumble. He looked around, assessing their situation, and didn’t like what he saw. The canyon was a kill box and there was nothing around but flat desert for miles. No cover, no way to outrun a fleet of helicopters. It was a frying-pan-versus-fire kind of deal.