Sons of Anarchy: Bratva by Christopher Golden Read Free Book Online Page A

mustache and his brand-new, fake-cowboy clothes, Aaron looked ridiculous there on the floor, like a 1970s porn star past his prime. All the threat had hissed out of him like helium from a punctured balloon.
    “Want to explain yourself, girl?” Temple asked.
    Trinity ignored him.
    Feliks handed the bodyguard’s gun to Oleg, then darted back along the corridor to retrieve their guns from the table in the foyer. Seconds later he reappeared and gave Gavril back his own pistol.
    “I trusted you,” Carney said, staring at Trinity.
    “Wasn’t us you shouldn’t have trusted,” she replied, hating the weight of the old man’s gun in her hand and the way her skin prickled with awareness of what a bullet could do.
    “Antoinette,” she said, making her way around Temple while keeping him in her sights. “Take the mobile phone out of your pocket.”
    The darkly tanned woman fished out her cell and handed it over. Trinity made sure Oleg and the others were covering Temple and his sidekicks and flipped open the cell phone. The text had come from a local phone number—no contact name—and consisted of four words. Stall. Fifteen minutes out .
    Trinity read the text aloud.
    “Shit!” Oleg muttered, glancing at Gavril. “Krupin?”
    The name made Antoinette flinch. Trinity felt her stomach lurch. She pointed the gun at Antoinette’s skull, pressed it into her dark hair, and nudged, wondering when she had become so hard. All her life she’d had this sort of violence around her, but most of the time she’d been inside a kind of protective bubble. Never a part of the violence.
    Now she jabbed Antoinette’s skull with the gun barrel again. “Who sent that text? Who’s on the way?”
    Carney let out a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry … I can’t be here. I’ve got to go.”
    He started toward the corridor, jittery and shaking his head. Feliks moved to block his path, and Aaron used the distraction, lunging to his feet and crashing into Feliks, trying to strip the weapon from his hand.
    Trinity swore, an instant of panic freezing her in place.
    Oleg opened fire on Temple, who dropped behind the kitchen island as he drew his gun. Gavril faded left, trying to get a clear shot.
    Antoinette grabbed Trinity’s wrist, twisting to throw off her aim. Trinity pulled the trigger, and a bullet punched the ceiling, raining plaster down on them. Antoinette drove her fist into Trinity’s kidney and then into her armpit, tried to take Carney’s gun from her. No, no, no . Her thoughts whirled, heart pounding. It was all falling apart.
    The bitch grabbed her face and pushed her backward, slammed her into a rack of cabinets, rattling dishes inside. Antoinette slammed her head twice more, fighting for the gun, and Trinity lost her grip. She felt it as her fingers opened, knew what it meant—that any second the woman would put a bullet in her, and she would die. They would all die. Oleg would die, and she couldn’t have that.
    Gunshots boomed in the kitchen.
    Trinity spun away from her. Smelled the spices from Temple’s delicious stew. Grabbed the handles on the big pot with both hands and flung the simmering, burning broth into Antoinette’s face.
    Her skin steaming and bubbling, the woman screamed and dropped the gun. Trinity dove for it. Her fingers closed around the cool metal, and she rolled into a sitting position and took aim at Oscar Temple’s back. He was hiding behind the kitchen island, but she was on his side, nothing to protect him from her.
    Temple didn’t hesitate. He started to turn.
    Trinity pulled the trigger twice and missed both times. The shots made him flinch, made him draw back as splinters flew out of the kitchen island. The flinch cost him a vital second or two, and then Gavril was there. He shot Temple in the forehead, snapping his head back as blood and brain matter sprayed the cabinets behind him. Gavril shot the old man in the chest as he collapsed.
    Antoinette kept screaming. Her face and eyes were