Potere | Book II ✓

xx | for the empire

xx | for the empire

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The Russians never see us coming. They're so focused on leveling their guns at Zara and preparing to open fire, that they don't see Carmen and I slip out from our hiding spot and take aim. I put a bullet in one of the soldier's lower leg and he drops like a sack of bricks, fumbling his weapon and crying out in agony.

Everything that transpires next is a fast-paced blur, a series of events that makes me appreciate my assassin acquaintances even more. I drop to the floor and scramble behind Zara's large desk, my chest rising and falling with every heavy breath as they shoot in my direction. Carmen was able to jump behind something as well, and all the bullets did was whiz by our heads in a call far too close for comfort.

There's no time to overthink or plan. Hidden strategically underneath the desk is a sharp letter opener. Grabbing it without hesitation is a move that needed to be made, because two seconds later, a soldier rounds the corner and prepares to introduce me to peace.

She's not somebody I want to meet today.

I drop my hands to my side and press my palms against the floor as I lift my lower body off the ground. It isn't complicated, nor a move that needed to be taught. I swipe my foot left, knocking the weapon from his hands and sending it scattering across the office floor. He doesn't have a chance to recover. I tighten my hold on the letter opener and scurry to my knees, driving it right through his muscular thigh.

He drops to a knee with a cry of pain but doesn't let the object protruding out of his thigh to stop him. The soldier reaches for me before I can crawl out of his way. The cold material of his gloves grab at face. He pulls me toward him with surprising ease and twists my body, slamming me to the ground.

I lose every ounce of air in my lungs, plus whatever excess might've remained when he drops his full body weight on top of me.

I gasp at air but waste it all with a yell. I should've known better, but it hurts. It hurts the way he squeezes my head and strategically places his thumbs over my eyes, pressing down with all his might. But I can't do anything. I can't kick him where it hurts or bring my hands up to swat erratically. I can do nothing but feel pain.

Then I remember one of the many defensive moves Liam taught me, most of which came late at night when we found ourselves unable to sleep. We spend most of our nights talking, kissing playfully, and joking with one another. Nights are when I hear the most stories about Michael, Liam's childhood, and the good times he does remember. But nights are also when I learn.

I learned to create distance when distance was needed. I learned to overpower a man stronger than me, and how to escape a hold that appeared impossible to slip out of. Liam's lesson works, and with the space needed, I draw my knee into his crotch and shove with my forearm, sending the soldier off me.

He never has time to recover. I yank out the letter opener jammed deep into his thigh and this time, aim for his throat. Again, again, and again. It pierces his Adams apple, drives through his trachea, again and again. His blood coats my fist, but that doesn't stop me. Nothing stops me.

I rise to my unsteady feet only when he's stopped clawing at his neck, grasping for air.

But there's no time to admire my handiwork.

I turn just in time to see the soldier Carmen is engaged with wrap his arms around her waist in a tackling fashion. He slams her into the wooden table, and they topple over it, knocking plastic silverware, dirty plates, used utensils, and leftover Chinese food everywhere. He jams his shoulder into her stomach as they tumble to a heap at my feet.