I do as Dozer says, hearing his footsteps behind me on the sidewalk that connects my porch to the driveway. He rented a Chevy Suburban, and without hesitation, I open the door and practically vault myself from the running board into the front seat. I slam the door and lock it, watching Dozer move around the front, his eyes roaming the area.
He opens the back door, tosses in our suitcase, and slams it. He then moves to the front door and just as he opens it, I see two men getting out of a sedan across the street and down a little. They’re heading our way… deliberately.
“Excuse me,” one of them calls, attempting to sound polite and in need of help.
Dozer wheels on them, gun drawn, and I gasp in surprise at how quickly he moved.
Neither of the men are scared to have a gun pointed at them, which tells me they aren’t out for a leisurely drive, in need of directions.
One of them starts to reach behind his back, but Dozer growls at him. “I wouldn’t do that.”
Both men slowly hold their arms outward as they keep walking our way, acting unconcerned there’s a weapon on them. One of the men smirks. “What’s up with the gun?”
“Oh, you know,” Dozer says, his own tone polite yet with a bite of warning. “Just in case some Russian Mafia were to show up in the neighborhood.”
I’d snort if I weren’t so terrified. These are clearly Ivan’s men as they don’t look at all intimidated, and that last comment knocks the smirks off their faces.
Slowly, they continue to move toward us, reaching the sidewalk not twenty feet away.
“Just give us the girl and you can go on your way,” one of them says.
“Stop where you are, or I’ll shoot,” Dozer counters.
“Oh God,” I moan, terrified Dozer’s in over his head. There’re two of them—trained killers, no doubt—and only one of him, a former NASA scientist who sits at a desk all day. “Should I call 9-1-1?”
“No,” he says calmly, his gun trained between the two men. To them, he warns, “One more step, and I’m going to shoot one of you in the leg.”
“You’d shoot an unarmed man out for a nice morning stroll in the neighborhood?” one of the men asks, and now I hear the distinctive Russian accent, which they’d masked earlier.
“I would,” Dozer replies, moving his gun slightly to the right and pointing it at the man who just asked the question. “But we both know you’re armed.”
Clearly trying to see if Dozer is bluffing, the guy takes a step forward.
Dozer lowers the gun slightly and squeezes off a bullet. The crack of gunfire rends the air, and I stifle a scream.
Unfortunately, the man who just took a bullet to his shin does the opposite and shrieks in pain as he drops to the ground.
The other guy starts moving backward, obviously wary now of the big man who, without much provocation, just shot his buddy.
“Get on the ground,” Dozer orders him, nodding to the writhing man on the sidewalk. “Flat on your stomach.”
Without hesitation, the second Russian complies.
“If you get up before we’re out of sight, I’ll shoot again.” The guy glares while the injured one whimpers, his hands clamped over the bleeding hole in his leg.
Dozer backs into the driver’s seat, swings his legs in, and closes the door, keeping the gun in hand as he shifts the Suburban into gear.
I half expect him to peel out of the driveway, but he calmly reverses, eyes flicking between the men on the ground and the rearview mirror to make sure nothing is behind us.
Twisting in the seat, I look back and say, “You’re good to pull out.”
Dozer trusts my word and swings the big SUV into the street so that the men are on his side of the vehicle and not mine. They glare at Dozer as he shifts into drive, and we pull away.
I watch out the back window as the man who wasn’t shot stands and pulls a phone from his pocket. “He’s calling someone.”
“Probably someone to come pick up his friend,” Dozer says, gaze flicking to the rearview mirror. “Or reinforcements.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble as I face front again. I see Dozer in a new light, his dark profile so very handsome with those angled cheekbones and full lips. And he doesn’t seem fazed by this at all. “You shot that guy.”
“I’d have shot the other one, too, if he’d kept coming.”
“You’ll get in trouble,” I fret.
“I’ll worry about that later,” he replies, and then spares a glance at me. “Call your mom. Change of plans. Tell her to go straight to my father’s house instead of the hotel. He’ll open the gates for her.”
My eyes widen as he gives me the address. “We’re going to your dad’s?”