Dark Russian Angel (A Vancouver Mafia Romance Book 1)

Cool air rushed over my face and body, making me cold. I slowly woke up to the sounds of men talking. They had Eastern European accents, German or Russian, maybe, I couldn’t tell, but for some reason, they were speaking in English.

“They’re closing in on us.”

“What do you want to do?”

“We need to lose them and get this truck off the road.”

“They’re driving a Mercedes. We’re going to struggle to lose them.”

“I’m calling for backup.” The deep voice said from above me.

I tried to focus on where I was. The sound of tires on the road was amplified. My hair flapped around my face. I was in a vehicle with the windows open, and I was lying down. We swerved, someone honked, and we hit a bump that made my body fly into the air before landing hard.

I worked to orientate myself, but my eyelids felt weighed down.

I need to open my eyes.

The male closest to me spoke. “We are heading northwest on 1A, and we are taking fire. Pursued by a black Mercedes with four gunmen. Semi-automatic weapons.”

He listened, then spoke again. “Not sure if we have five minutes, but we’ll head that way.”

With enormous effort, I managed to open my eyes. Above me was the owner of that voice. He had dark hair, angular features, and a wide mouth. He held a huge-ass gun in his hands. Why does he have a gun? I focused on him, trying to determine if he was dangerous.

He didn’t seem angry. His face was devoid of expression, and his voice was matter-of-fact. “Head straight on the 1A. The team has us on GPS, and they are heading our way.”

“How far out?”

“Five to seven minutes.”

More horns blared as the vehicle veered to one side. I heard the sickening crunch of vehicles colliding somewhere behind us.

I had no idea what was going on. Why was I in this vehicle? Who were these men? I tried to remember how I had come to be here, but the last thing I remembered was climbing out the window of the safe house. And falling.

Fear made a sound in the back of my throat as I watched the man use the butt of his gun to bust out the rest of the back windshield.

“Who are you?” My voice sounded like a croak.

He glanced at me without emotion, giving me a glimpse of two beautiful, cold blue eyes, but he didn’t respond.

I worked to even my breath, which was punching out of my chest with fear. “Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone anything. I won’t testify.”

Annoyance crossed his face. “Sweetheart, if we survive the next ten minutes, you’re going to testify.”

If we survive? Was he expecting us to die? Why would he tell me that?

The guy in the front seat interrupted. “We’ve got a second vehicle coming after us.”

The man looked up, assessing the situation. “Three armed men in the second vehicle.”

Tires squealed as we swerved wildly. “This street has too many damn streetlights,” the driver stated in a calm voice.

The big man beside me spoke. “Get on the floor.”

“What?” I swallowed, feeling paralyzed. “Why?”

His tone was laced with annoyance. “Get on the floor. Now.”

I slid over the edge and curled up in a ball on the floor.

“Viktor, where do you keep your extra ammo?”

“Under the driver’s seat. There’s also a second Glock.”

The man glanced down at me. “Reach under the seat and grab that.”

I felt completely frozen. I wanted to help, but my body seemed incapable of anything but the fetal position.

He leaned down, and his arm dug roughly between me and the front seat. He leaned over me, close enough that I could smell his minty breath and the faint scent of his expensive, masculine cologne. Unblinking, I studied his harsh features. His gaze dropped to mine, the intensity of his look burning me. The vehicle swerved again, and he grunted as he braced his hand against the door, over my head, to avoid crushing me under his weight.

“I don’t want to die,” I whispered, feeling more than a little desperate.

Ignoring my plea, he pulled a huge gun from beneath the seat. “Can you hold this?”

With trembling hands, I gingerly grasped it, terrified that I’d accidentally shoot him.

He reached down, digging further under the seat, his arm flattening so his elbow pressed right below my breast.

With big eyes, I watched as he retrieved two narrow boxes.

He took the gun from my trembling fingers and sat back on his haunches, on the other side of the floor, to load it. He cocked the gun.

He lifted his head and spoke to the driver. “Get me within fifty feet. I want to take out their tires.”

The driver didn’t speak, but I felt the vehicle slow down. He crawled onto the back seat, taking aim out the back. The sound was deafening as he fired his weapon. We lurched wildly, and he swore, hanging onto the seat.

“Keep it steady.”

“Hang on.”

The engine roared. I watched with wide eyes as he focused his gun and fired several times in rapid succession. I heard tires squeal and then another sickening crunch.

“Incoming from the side.”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The terrifying sound of bullets hitting the side of the truck echoed around us. A scream escaped me as I was showered with glass. The man moved above me and started firing out the side window above my head.

“They’re closing in on us,” the driver yelled.

He reloaded his gun and then, with a calm energy, focused his gun out the window and fired repeatedly. Bullet shells dropped out of his gun in a stream. Tires screeched on pavement, and I heard metal and glass shattering.

The man above me sat back as he calmly reloaded his weapon.

“You want to go back and wipe them out?” the driver asked.

He looked over his shoulder. “Police will be on their way. Leave them.” He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. “Fight’s over. We are heading back. Call Turgenev and ask him to come in.”

The driver gunned the engine, and we flew down the road, whipping the air into the truck with a ferocity that made me lose my breath. In the distance, I could hear sirens.

He focused on me with his laser gaze, but he didn’t speak. He simply looked me over.

I was so afraid, my teeth started to chatter.

“Come up here,” he commanded.

I tried, but failed to push myself up.

He reached down, grabbed my hand, and roughly yanked me onto the seat. “There is glass everywhere.”

I gingerly sat down next to him and realized I still wore my knapsack on my back. All the back windows were missing. The front windshield was riddled with bullet holes, and the passenger window up front was half-shattered. The driver was a massive man with a trim black beard. I wanted to look at the man beside me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look directly at his face. Instead, I focused on his long legs, clad in jeans. His big hands rested on his thighs, and he held a terrifying-looking gun as casually as someone else would hold a cup of coffee.

The wind whipped my hair around my face. “Who are you?”

“Andrusha Sokolov.”

None of this was making sense. “Are you a cop?”

“Ivan Bunko is my enemy.”

I thought about that. “So, you’re not a cop?”

His mouth flattened into an ironic smile. “No. I’m not a cop.”

I rubbed my forehead. “I heard shouting downstairs.”

“At the safe house?”

I tried to gather my thoughts. I had gone to bed, fully dressed, like I did most nights, because the last time we had been attacked, I had been caught unawares, in my underwear. Since then, I’d slept in my clothes, with my packed bag on the bed, ready to react to any situation. I’d woken up to the sound of shouting. I listened at my door and knew something bad was happening downstairs. We were under attack—again. I pushed the dresser against my door and then crept out the window. I was terrified of heights, but I had forced myself to climb out on the roof and then scale down the wooden lattice. The last thing I remember was falling backward. I woke up in the back of this truck.

“How did I get into this truck?”

“We witnessed your fall.”

I frowned. “You were at the safe house?”

“We were.”

This didn’t make any sense. “What were you doing there?”

He glanced over at me, but he didn’t respond. Something cold slid down my spine.

“So, you are not a police officer, and Ivan Bunko is your enemy?”

He looked away, not offering me anything.

“You’re like Ivan, then.”

“Ivan is a cold-hearted psychopath who kills without thought or feeling.”

“And you?”

He thought about his answer. “I don’t like to kill.”

Fear flooded my body, and a little noise sounded in my throat as I became more aware of the precariousness of my situation. I sat beside a man who held a huge gun. A man who had just engaged in a high-speed car chase while shooting at people. And I still didn’t know if he was a good guy or a bad guy.

Swallowing, I worked for more answers. “How did you find the place?”

“Let’s say it was way too easy to find you.”

Why had he been looking for me? My voice faltered. “Were you there to hurt me?”

“I had no intention of getting involved.”

I couldn’t process what was happening. Who were these men? Were they here to harm me? Hold me captive? Torture me? Kill me? I thought about his words. “You said you wanted me to testify.”

“You will testify.”

That didn’t sound optional. “Why do you care?”

“Ivan Bunko needs to stay in jail. Your testimony will keep him there.”

I took in a shaky breath. I worked to appear calm and unafraid. “Maybe we should call the police.”

“I’m not sure what we’re going to do with you.”

Oh my God. “What does that mean?”

“Relax,” he commanded.

Relaxed was the exact opposite of what I was feeling right now. What will happen to me?

He stared, expressionless, out the window, looking far too serene for someone who had just been in a gunfight. The light caught his cheekbones, making them sharp and angular in a face that reminded me of a fallen angel. Beautiful but dangerous.

We didn’t speak after that. I felt foggy and light-headed. The motion of the truck was making me extra nauseous, so I concentrated all my energy on not throwing up.

I watched in a daze as we drove without incident through downtown. Then we turned down a road that got progressively less populated. The road narrowed, and we passed a big container harbor. I watched as the driver swiped his card at a locked gate. The chain-link fence automatically rolled open, and we drove through. We passed several older-looking warehouses before he pulled into a yard. As if someone was watching for us, one of the huge warehouse doors slowly opened.

We drove up the ramp and pulled into the vast warehouse bay. Andrusha got out and looked back at me. He was even more intimidating standing up. He was tall, with a hard, muscular body that looked fast and dangerous.

“Come on.” He motioned with his head.

Did I have a choice? I carefully got out of the truck and concentrated on staying on my feet. My legs shook beneath me like Jell-O.

Three big men stood outside the truck. They were all dressed in black fatigue pants, and they all had an alarming number of guns strapped to their bodies. None of them spoke, but all of them stared at the truck. Dozens of bullet holes marred the body.

“What do you want us to do, Andrusha?” said one of the men.

Andrusha spoke with his clipped European accent. “The truck has been compromised. The body needs to be completely repaired, windows replaced. Do a full paint job and change the color of the truck. Change the plates and clean it up.”

“You got it.”

The driver tossed one of the men his keys and then walked around to where we stood.

Andrusha spoke. “Where’s Vlad?”

“He took two days off this weekend. Want me to call him back in?”

Andrusha shook his head. “You can handle it. I need the men extra sharp tonight. No smoking or flashlights. I want eyes on all directions. Report immediately on anything that looks out of the ordinary. And use night vision.”

“Roger.” He headed across the bay.

Andrusha looked at me. “Follow me.”

He led me to a windowless infirmary room that had everything a hospital room would have. An older man wearing a white lab coat came in and performed an exam on me. He listened to my heart, took my blood pressure, and looked into my eyes with a small penlight.

Andrusha leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

“I think I hit my head,” I said to the older man.

Andrusha responded. “Turgenev doesn’t speak English.”

I looked at him in bewilderment. “Is he a doctor?”

“He was one of Moscow’s most brilliant trauma surgeons. When he immigrated to Canada to be with his daughter, the only job he could get was as a taxicab driver. I pay him a retainer to be on call, full time, to take care of my men.”

I looked around the room, trying to understand why someone would have a doctor on call. Who were these people? “Why do you need a trauma surgeon? Why not go to the hospital?”

“Gunshot and knife wounds garner too much attention from the police.”

“He performs surgery here?”

“Not in this room. We have an operating room for him.”

What kind of business would require their own operating room? Before I could ask any more questions, the doctor spoke to Andrusha in Russian. Andrusha moved towards me.

“What did he say?” I looked between the two of them.

“He says you have glass in your hair. He wants me to hold the light while he removes it.”

I sat as still as a mouse while Andrusha stood over me with a light and the older man tweezed multiple shards of glass from my hair.

I thought about our crazy conversation. How many knife and gunshot wounds would necessitate having your own trauma surgeon and operating room? These people were not the police. They were the opposite of the police which meant they were dangerous.

I needed to get out of here. I needed to get to a phone, call 911, and get into the hands of people who could protect me.

Except I felt so weak and bad that the thought of even getting off this hospital cot almost overwhelmed me. I needed to find the strength to escape.

Andrusha talked casually in Russian to the doctor. I discreetly studied him. My core response to the man was fear. There was something formidable and ruthless about him. On some level I knew that the longer I stayed here, the more danger I would be in.

I decided to start a conversation and see where that got me first. “I want to call the police,” I blurted.

“No.” That single word changed my status from unusual guest to kidnappee.

My heart started to hammer my chest. “Why not? I need to be in their protection.”

He gave me another flat glance but didn’t answer. What was going to happen to me? What would he do with me? If he was like Bunko… I needed to get out of here. Cold fear wash over my stomach.

Finally, the doctor stepped away from me.

“You’re all done,” Andrusha said for him.

I looked at the doctor, wondering if I could somehow give him a message with my eyes. If he saw my fear, maybe he would call the police for me. But he didn’t make eye contact. He just smiled at the man beside me before disappearing from the room.

Andrusha looked me over. “Follow me.”

He disappeared from the doorway, and for a moment, I debated not following him. But the truth was, I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. I saw how many men were in this building. Men who wore big guns. I eased off the bed and fought more nausea as I followed him down the hallway. He crossed the bay, seeming not to care if I followed, but then he stopped unexpectedly at the foot of the wide metal stairs.

“Come on,” he said impatiently.

The climb up the stairs took all my energy. I was a dancer. My body was strong and lithe. I couldn’t understand why it felt like my legs weighed a hundred pounds each. At the top of the stairs, he led me along the balcony that overlooked the bay before opening a door and motioning me up another flight of stairs.

When we reached the top, he tapped in some numbers on a panel. The door unlocked with a click.

He ushered me in. I looked around, realizing as he closed the door behind us that we stood in an apartment. It looked like a loft, with high ceilings, exposed brick, and modern features.

“What is this place?”

“I live here.” He tossed his keys and phone on the island.

Oh my god. Was he going to make me his personal sex slave or something? This was so bad. I looked behind me at the door, wondering how far down I could get before he caught up to me.

My throat felt like sandpaper. “What am I doing here?”

“You’re going to sleep.”

I mustered the last ounce of energy I had inside of me. “I’m not getting near a bed with you. You need to call the police and let them know I’m here.”

He ignored my protests. “Bathroom is through that door if you want to clean up.”

I looked around at my modern, stylish new cage. I was in his locked apartment, in a warehouse, miles away from downtown. Between me and the armed front gate, there were at least six men with guns. I was weak, nauseous, and my head pounded in pain. Did I have a choice? My life seemed to be going from bad to worse no matter what I tried. I stood staring at the tall man who was scrolling through his phone.

“What are you going to do?” I forced myself to ask.

He looked up from his phone. “I’m not going to do anything. Go clean up.”

That sounded like a direct order. Afraid of what he would do if I refused, I trudged across the room, walked into his luxurious bathroom, and locked the door behind me.