3

It was stuffy in the car, and I opened the windows to the full. Waves of nausea rolled over me, then rolled back, and I literally gnawed at the filter of a cigarette, holding the steering wheel with one hand.

Today I killed. Again. And it wasn't at all like the first time.

The murder of Boris quickly sank, because, firstly, he deserved to die, and secondly, by and large, it was not me who killed him, but a bullet. I just pulled the trigger. It was not so with today's wolf.

Killing for nothing, I felt the blade go into it, even heard the sound as it pierced the skin, heard the sound of blood, the beating of the heart and his blood that fell on me, smelled of metal and death even now.

I knew that I was ahead of Grisha by only a hundredth of a second, that the wolfhound would have killed the old man one way or another, but ... It was terrible.

I stretched my hand, which still felt the cold of the knife, and returned it to the steering wheel. Grisha wanted to drive himself, but I didn't let him. I didn't want to catch his eyes on me and smell his excitement. The time when he could become a hero and save me from monsters is long gone. Now I became a monster, and I didn’t need heroes at all.

I reproached myself for returning to the city, but what I learned today made me look at the situation a little differently.

From the very beginning, I was purposefully pushed to the belief that the whole thing was in Angelov’s business and in Kokhan, and I was not going to repeat everything that directly or indirectly contradicted this, but judging by the actions of the same Kokhan, a mysterious personality and, perhaps, a dummy, then he still had a definite goal. The only question was, was this his goal?

Someone prompted him, someone informed him, someone with his help pulled this long game, which started approximately from the moment when I left the city with Alyosha.

Ibragimov said that the past stirred itself up, and in connection with this, only one thing came to my mind: revenge, a dish that, as you know, was served cold. And in this case, nothing would have changed much if I hadn’t returned to the city, but stayed with Nikita and moved again, wherever my eyes looked, because someone had views of me long before I took nurses about meeting with Grisha, and this someone was not Ibragimov. At least he's not alone.

- Fuck!

In my rage, I slammed the steering wheel hard and the car swerved dangerously. I didn't even notice that I was driving too fast.

Having leveled the car, I slowed down a little so as not to inadvertently crush Grisha, who was driving ahead. Whiskey pounded, and thoughts thickened in my head, gradually brewing into an unreal mess. Why were there more questions and not fewer?

If a long time ago Boris was visited by someone who was not really his brother, then who came to Ibragimov, and whose DNA test results were in the vault? And how did Alyosha know about Kokhan? How did Ibragimov find out about the doll and the map? Did Rose tell? What the f*ck?!

I glanced at the folder on the passenger seat and massaged my temple, concentrating on the road. The cigarette burned my fingers, and I reached out to throw it out the window, but Grisha suddenly began to slow down, and his motorcycle caught up with my car. He quickly waved his hand to me and, returning it to the steering wheel, also nodded.

I frowned, trying to figure out what he wanted, but at the same time, bright headlights reflected in the side mirror, and the rear window of the car was covered with cobwebs from the shots.

I screamed and turned the steering wheel to the right, moving away from the automatic fire. If the car was not armored with bulletproof glass, I would already be glowing from the holes.

Despite this, the motorcycles grouped, covering the car, and began to shoot back. Now I understood why they were driving in pairs: one was driving, the other was shooting.

An explosion was heard very close and one of the motorcycles lost control and fell along with the riders. The wolfhound waved in front of me and again quickly waved his hand. This time I realized that he was telling me to turn off the road. The car was armored, but one well-aimed shot at the wheels would have ended my journey forever.

We were just passing the private sector, and I grabbed the steering wheel, looking for a suitable turn. The side mirror flew off, and I hurriedly turned into the nearest exit.

Having flown about fifty meters, I braked sharply and cut off the engine. By some miracle, only one motorcycle turned behind me, and the rest of the party went on noisily.

The heart was ready to break through the chest. What I feared did happen: somewhere on that damn highway they were waiting for us.

Where did these fuckers come from? There were thickets along the road! I didn't even pay attention to what kind of cars they were. All-terrain vehicles of some kind, or what?

I took a breath and mentally I returned to the track: from its side, the sounds of shots almost did not reach, but I was sure that the deadly race continued.

It seems to me that I slipped so easily was not a miracle at all. There were not so many motorcyclists to hold back the cars, especially since some of them, most likely, were already dead.

A card with the Queen of Spades popped up in front of my eyes. I was allowed to leave, but Grisha stayed there. One. Without a partner to cover for him. An easy target even for a very bad shooter.

I threw a stale cigarette out the window. The heart no longer broke out the chest, but quietly exploded from the inside. I had to think about myself and my son, about how to get out of all this shit, and before my eyes I could see a motorcycle with a pilot in a helmet, decorated with two wolf heads, crossed as if in a kiss.

- Damn you, Astakhov! Closing my eyes, I whispered.

Opening my eyes, I looked at the motorcyclists who had swerved with me. Judging by the pattern on the helmet, one of them was Gray.

He stood with a machine gun in his hands and looked in the direction of the congress. Feeling my gaze, he looked back.

- Do you still have ammo? I asked hoarsely.

Gray nodded and unbuttoned his jacket, showing the number of clips.

I fastened my seatbelt and started the engine, figuring out how quickly we could catch up with the fun company. According to the idea, the gap should not have been large, and my car was fast enough.

- Sit down!

Gray nodded to his partner and quickly darted into the car. He dropped his helmet on the floor and reloaded his machine gun.

I drove onto the highway and succumbed to speed, carefully going around the burning SUV and the wreckage of motorcycles with the pilots lying nearby. I don't know if they were alive or not. In any case, it was not my concern right now, but that of Gray's partner, who had slowed down by the wreckage.

We quickly closed the distance, and I could already hear endless shots. At least there was still someone to shoot at.

Gray opened the hatch and, standing on the seat, got out with a machine gun just in time: motorcycles were already flashing about ten meters away, but they were not ours.

Lighter and more maneuverable with high front wheels, they deftly zigzag, distracting the remaining motorcyclists from the wolfhound gang, while the SUV clearly and purposefully pursued Grisha.

Leaning out of the window, the shooter did not stop shooting for a second, and the wolfhound's motorcycle visibly wearily moved to the left, then to the right. How was he even alive? Or was there also a shrewd calculation here: I had to return to the road to see Grisha's death?

Our motorcyclists quickly slowed down and regrouped, giving us the way. Gray cut off almost all the raiders who did not have time to turn into the thickets along the district, which thinned as the city approached, but the SUV, apparently also armored, like my car, did not succumb to it.

Grisha would have hit the wheels long ago, but Gray only hit the pavement.

- What the ****? I yelled as he dived into the saloon.

- The machine jammed! - Gray shouted in response and, throwing him onto the dashboard, climbed for pistols.

I caught my breath. The city was getting closer, and from the railway crossing, beyond which the road to the residence began, we were separated only by a tunnel - literally a dug grave for Grisha, because there was nowhere for him to wriggle, and it was easy for an SUV to just smear him there.

I took a deep breath: the night smelled so intoxicatingly of greens, flowers, gasoline, silver and blood. There was nothing left before the tunnel and the decision was easy for me. Having drowned the gas pedal, I caught up with the SUV and turned the steering wheel to the left at the entrance to the tunnel.

The car didn't rattle. The SUV screeched sparks against the tunnel wall. Gray shouted something and climbed out the hatch again. I heard shots and intuitively turned the steering wheel to the right. The SUV jumped and rolled over, exploded, giving me and the motorcycles following me a second head start.

The rest of the way to the residence flew by in a fog. I did not slow down even at the entrance to the gate and braked only at the house.

The seat belt stopped me and Gray was the first to be near Grisha. He was staggering, and the helmet he had taken off was covered in blood from his hands.

- Well, brother? Stuchek caught seven? Gray asked him.

- Grisha! I yelled as I finally jumped out of the car.

- What did you do on the road? - the wolfhound attacked me. - What the hell are you looking at? he said to Gray.

- Yes, I'm... I looked after... - The latter stepped back, letting me through.

- I look forward to hearing! Grisha demanded of me, piercing with black eyes.

"You're hurt," I breathed, ignoring his attack.

There was a very strong smell of blood coming from him, which flowed from the sleeves of his jacket. Jeans, too, confidently soaked in blood. I was lost in conjecture how many bullets he really caught, and how he could still stand on his feet.

- Kira! growled the wolfhound. - I...

- Shut up already! I blurted out, suddenly angry. - Let's go!

I went to the house. Grisha followed me. At the stairs, his patience and endurance failed and the wolfhound swayed violently.

Katya, who came out with Rosa and Marta, rushed to him.

- Go away! I bristled and hugged Grisha myself.

- Do it, Katyusha, - the wolfhound gave out cheerfully, - as Kira Valeryevna said! In anger, she is very scary! Brothers! he shouted to his. - If I okochursya ... - Grisha swayed, and I grabbed the railing so as not to fall with him. - Do not remember the dashing word! And look after my girl! And son!

I pursed my lips as I continued upstairs. The wolfhound, a creature that is not normal in principle, turned on the familiar mode of full readiness to take up an ice pick and, with a cry of "I took out bullets from myself long before meeting you," proceed to extract all the silver lucky women who miraculously bypassed attention to his head.

- Rose! Please bring some vodka, I asked. - And a bone, if any!

Laughter was heard from everywhere. Along the way, for his brothers, that death, that wounds were not a reason for sadness, and after all, almost everyone who went with us to the estate remained on that track.

- Damn such! I cursed, cutting Grisha's blood-soaked T-shirt with scissors.

Gray, as if looking into the water, when he spoke about seven bullets: two went through, one scratched, four were still inside. Just like Alyosha had on the day of the jewelry store robbery.

- Where are you pulling your paw? - Rosa slapped the wolfhound on the arm, preventing her from taking a bottle of very expensive vodka. - It's not to drink! she added sternly in response to Grisha's rather unfriendly look.

Actually, I asked for vodka just to drink, but there was nothing else in the house to disinfect wounds, and Marta brought me only a first-aid kit with a bandage and medical tweezers - the very ones with which, it seems, I had already pulled the silver out of Grisha for an eternity bullet.

- Lei!

Rosa expertly opened the bottle and, taking a sip, splashed the wolfhound on the back.

- Where is the bone? he hissed, wincing. Martha promptly handed him a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. - Thank you! Grisha murmured hoarsely.

His head cracked to the point of nausea, but his hand with tweezers firmly removed the bullets one by one. I admired how patient Grisha was and how strong he was to drive a motorcycle with such injuries and get to the residence, and even try to reprimand me for saving his life.

I tossed the last bullet, along with the tweezers, onto the scrap of toilet paper Marta was holding, and Rose gave him the bottle after pouring another generous amount of water on his back.

"I'll cook you some food," she said.

I took the wet towel from Martha's hands and pressed Grisha to her back.

- Thank you, Rosa, - I answered wearily, - but you better go to rest. If I do something myself.

The old she-wolf shook her head disapprovingly, but did not argue and, squeezing my shoulder, walked off with Martha.

Grisha suspiciously quieted down, sipping vodka and a cigarette. In addition to his usual smells and the added smell of blood, I also felt sadness mixed with anger.

He himself recommended Ibragimov to me, but then changed his mind, and despite the fact that I assumed that the risky meeting would not bring anything good, I went anyway, and it turned out that because of me we were caught on the track, and Grisha lost friends .

I patted his back again. Bullet holes, to the envy of purebred wolves, were tightened quickly, leaving behind only small ragged circles, and those disappeared faster than I got up from the couch.

Grisha, throwing the bottle at lightning speed, followed me up and caught my hand, not letting me go, although I was not going to leave.

His eyes burned, and from his chest, which still had a tattoo of a wolf's head, there was the heat of a heartbeat. Rest your palm and the burn will remain.

"They needed you," I said in a barely audible voice. His hand, covered with dried blood, was also hot, and intertwining my fingers with him immediately made me sweat. - You, not me. Dead or alive,” I added, faltering at the last word.

I remembered what Michael said. But he really could be right that Nikita could be kidnapped or killed in front of me. And they wanted to do the same with Grisha that night. Deprive me of support, weaken, leave me alone.

Who knows what kind of psycho Kohan was and who helped him, but today they almost reached the goal. Moreover, this was already the third blow to me, if it was to count the doll and the tears that she brought me.

What did I do to deserve it? Why did they want to punish me?

I do not believe that for Angelov. But it was somehow connected with him, otherwise Ibragimov would not have intervened.

Or maybe it was still connected with Grisha? Or with Ibragimov himself, who dragged both of us into settling his personal scores?

Crap! I didn't think at all! Murders, chases, more murders... My perception and ability to think - everything floated and distorted, as if it was not real.

The tip of Grisha's cigarette flared brightly when he took a puff and reflected in his eyes, igniting the already burning darkness, and I felt like never before the gaze of a frighteningly silent killer with experience.

- Why are you silent? I asked, doubting that I really wanted to hear the answer, because in his eyes I already saw everything: all thoughts, all feelings, all desires.

"Tomorrow I'll go after Kokhan," Grisha answered hoarsely, clutching a burning cigarette in his palm.

Tomorrow... "Tomorrow" sounded like a verdict from his lips, a long-awaited finale, to which we went tortuous, maybe even erroneous paths, but today... Today I almost lost it.

I sank down on the couch and, releasing Grisha's hand, unbuttoned his blood-covered jeans. The flesh under them was also in the blood, but this did not stop me and I took his cock in my mouth.

I confess that I have never given a man a blowjob with such pleasure as at that moment.

Never.

Grisha finished so powerfully and suddenly that I almost choked, but it was worth it. That sweetness on his face was worth it.

“My girl…” he whispered, running his fingers through my hair.

The cosmos in his eyes swirled me. I reached for a bottle of vodka, but Grisha held me back. He was not one of those men who disdained to kiss a woman with a taste of their sperm.

Grisha knelt down and circled my lips with his finger. I couldn't tell his smell from mine and his taste from mine as he kissed me as he tugged at my waistcoat and bra.

He did it, of course, rudely: he just tore everything. He did not spare my trousers, and the straps of sandals, even managed to tear his jeans so that they would not prevent him from penetrating me.

Grisha leaned on his hands, making strong and deep thrusts. I spread my legs wider and, driven by a strange desire, put my hand on my pubis and began to stroke the clitoris.

Following my movements, Grisha slightly changed his position to my actions. He liked them, and they excited him. I felt it in his flesh, I saw it in his eyes when he looked at me, also enjoying how my lips parted, from which still quiet moans escaped.

Suddenly he stopped and, grabbing my hands, brought them behind my head, holding with one hand, while his other hand replaced mine on the clitoris.

I screamed from the buzz and the growing sensation of an approaching joint orgasm: explosive, bright, spicy with the aroma of blood and silver.

Grisha covered my lips with his own, literally drinking my voluptuous moan. I felt his hot eruption, but not in myself, but on myself.

Crown pressing on the excited clitoris, Grisha ran his hand over my stomach, rubbing his sperm over me.

One gesture instead of a thousand words: my...