THE KHAN
Andrew's Pov
Downtown. . .
The phone trembles in my hand. I have a very bad feeling about this. People that go into downtown unconscious seldom walk out, especially women that look like Angel.
Downtown is crowded, curious. It'll be harder to move quietly with whispers following us.
On the screen of the car, I can see the little dot that's Angel. I imagine how she's feeling if she's conscious. I hope she is, even though it would be very frightening for her. The longer she stays under, the more chance there might be something wrong.
Suddenly I'm filled with white hot rage. She's done nothing to deserve this.
I won't lose her, I vow, determined
It doesn't matter if they know I'm coming. It would be hard for them to hide too, with eager rats willing to whisper their location for a piece of bread.
If they didn’t know who they were stealing, they’ll learn soon.
Maximus doesn’t wait for any of the green lights anymore, pressing the car’s engine until the purring beneath the hood becomes a growl.
Brett’s breathing quickens next to me, but he stays quiet. Good. He'll get used to it. And he doesn't, I don't want to hear about it. He should add it on to his fee.
My fingers twitch over my phone screen as I pull up the security team. Men on standby, with the updated coordinates.
I forward the same location to my second team, three blocks behind. We can't all drive in at once. If we do, we might as well mount a neon sign in top of all the cars.
The ping beeps on my phone. They’ve stopped. Kiernan calls a moment later.
“They’re stationary,” he confirms. “An old apartment. Floor five. No security.”
“Then they’re stupid,” I say, snarling.
“They’re arrogant,” Maximus mutters from the driver’s seat.
I crack my neck. “Either way, doesn't matter to me.”
We pull up about two minutes later. The building is just as described; no security, no reception, peeling paint and a dim stairwell that reeks of drugs and blood. How welcoming.
We don't take the elevator. The rickety thing would announce our arrival a mile away, that is if it could successfully get us there.
The apartment door is easy to find with it's rusty hinges and the plaque labeling it five hanging halfway off.
I motion to Maximus. He nods understanding, and yanking his gun out of the waistband of his trousers he raises a big, booted foot.
One kick.
The rickety door swings open with a crack, splinters flying. I'm running in immediately, to a room that smells of stale food and bodily fluids.
Fatso, who was lounging, lunges for his gun. The greaseball moves fast but not fast enough. Maximus, gun already in his hand fires a shot into his side. He yells, a pain filled shout, and I take him down with a kick to the jaw.
By the time he falls heavily to the ground, some of his teeth have been knocked loose. Although that's not completely my fault, they look like they'd already begun to rot in his mouth.
A door squeaks and it's all the warning we get before a blond, lanky man opens fire. We duck, rolling out of the way behind the sparce furniture in the space and I enchant his shoes to be slippery.
As soon as I hear the thud of him falling down, I draw my gun and deploy a bullet into each of his legs. He blubbers as they hit their mark and I wipe at the small dribble of blood from my nose.
I walk over to the door Blondie walked out of, the only one in the room. It's a dingy bathroom and it's empty. Fuck.
“Wake him up.”
Maximus walks over to Fatso and steps on his fingers. He yells awake, clutching the porky digits to his chest.
“Brett come in. Confirm of these are the two men from the shop.”
Brett pokes his head in, his throat working on a swallow as he watches the scene with wide eyes. For the first time, I see how young he is and I give me a second to catch his breath.
One.
“Quickly Brett,” I say, snapping my fingers at him. “Are these them?”
He let's go of the death grip on the doorframe and walks in. A moment later, he nods and my lips quirk up. That's at least something.
“Listen up, both of you,” I announce above their annoying groaning, bringing out my phone to search for a picture of Angel. I only have one, which I took to send to Sebastian.
“This is a race! The first person to tell me what I want to know wins the chance to answer my next question because he won't have a bullet in his brain.”
That gets them to shut the fuck up. By the time I turn the phone toward them, they're already waiting.
“Sold her!”
I point my gun at the lanky one, who opens his mouth to protest, giving me a wide target ton shoot straight into. His head snaps back as it receives the bullet.
“And who's idea was that?”
“Barry's! Barry's! He did it,” Fatso exclaims, pointing to the guy who can no longer defend himself.
“Who did he sell her to?”
The greasy bastard hesitates before he answers and I'm inclined to shoot him right between the eyes. Then he whispers a name that has me clutching my gun tighter, one I hoped to never hear spoken to me again.
“The Khan!”
Fuck. This just got a whole lot more complicated. It couldn't have fucking been anyone else?
I sigh as I turn away from the disgusting bowl of lard, needing to think. Seems I'll be needing to pay him a visit after all.
But why did it fucking have to be him?
Everyone knows the The Khan.
His tales are told through gritted teeth or throats half closed with fear. He's spoken about with a reverence that begs from mercy, that offers submission in exchange for lienency. He’s not just a norma
l hyena you don't escape unscathed from.
He's their king. And he'll demand his pound of flesh upfront.