Christopher Golden - Sons of Anarchy - Bratva

“If my friend thinks you are lying, he will continue to hurt you,” Krupin said. “So tell me, Mr. Ashby, are you what you seem to be? Just a piece of biker trash worried about his family?”

Jax nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Krupin’s face. “Yeah. That’s me. Biker trash.”

The words translated differently inside his head, where they were a promise that he would make sure Krupin took a hell of a beating before he and the boys left Nevada. But Trinity came first.

Krupin produced a business card and slipped it into the pocket of Jax’s leather vest. “On this card is a number where you can reach me,” Krupin went on. “If you discover any information that will lead you to your sister, you will call me immediately.”

Opie swore quietly, and the men guarding him took a step away. He stayed where he was. Jax spat another bloody wad.

“If you’re searching for Oleg and his friends, you must have something you can tell me,” he said. “Anything. Point me in a direction to get me started, one of the things you’re pursuing.”

Krupin glanced at Scarface, and Jax thought the big man would hit him again—he tensed, not sure he could keep himself from fighting back this time—but, instead, it was Scarface who nodded. What the hell is this? Jax wondered.

“A gun dealer named Oscar Temple and his bodyguards were murdered last night,” Scarface said. “We know that Oleg and his friends were hoping to acquire guns. If you can learn anything about those murders, it might help you in your search.”

Oscar Temple . The name sounded familiar, but if the guy dealt illegal guns, that was not a surprise.

But as the Russians all turned and began to make their way back to their vehicles, guns vanishing back into holsters, it wasn’t Oscar Temple who was foremost in his mind. He stared at the retreating men.

“Lagoshin,” he said.

Krupin and the big man turned—the big bastard with his shotgunned face and his bloodied fists.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ashby,” Lagoshin said, his voice smooth as silk, almost elegant, despite his brutish appearance. “When you are icing your injuries later, remember that they were inflicted merely to make a point. If you have lied to me, or if you discover your sister’s location and hesitate to share it… well, I’m certain you don’t need me to explain. Mr. Krupin believes you are smarter than you look. I hope he is not mistaken.”

As Lagoshin and his men climbed back into their vehicles, a squeal of tires ripped through the night air. An engine roared. Jax and Opie whipped around to see a gray Camaro tearing up the street toward the church. The Russians scrambled, bumping into each other as some tried to get into the car and others tried to get out.

“Down!” Opie said, and he slammed Jax to the steps.

Jax blinked, head still ringing, and from that angle—with his cheek against the granite again—he saw Krupin and three other Bratva men draw their guns and start to take cover behind the cars and the open doors. They were too slow.

The Camaro’s engine sounded like thunder. A gun barrel poked out the open window, glinting in the moonlight, and the Camaro’s passenger pulled the trigger. The staccato bark of the assault rifle echoed off the steps and the face of the church.

One Bratva man slammed back against the SUV, his head snapping to one side as blood and brain and bone erupted from his skull. A bullet took Krupin in the shoulder, spinning him around in a fan of bloody mist. Two or three shots stitched the chest of a third man, who hit the ground with a wet, meaty slap.

Then the Camaro had gone past. Chibs and Joyce shot at the car as it whipped by them, but it skidded into a left turn at the next corner and vanished as instantly as it had appeared. The engine screamed as it raced off through the neighborhood.

Lagoshin’s men were shouting in confusion, trying to help the wounded even as Lagoshin himself shoved his way out of the SUV and started barking orders. The sedan tore away from the curb in a hopeless pursuit. Even groggy, Jax knew they had no chance of catching the shooters.

Fury etched on his face, Lagoshin stormed up the church steps toward them. Jax realized Opie was no longer pressing him to the steps, and he sat up wearily, sneering. He knew the look on Lagoshin’s face, and now he wished he and Opie hadn’t left their guns up in front of the church door—hell, he wished he hadn’t let the guy beat the shit out of him.

“What in hell was that?” Lagoshin roared, one of his men scrambling up behind him, alternately watching the street for further attack and covering Jax and Opie with his gun.

Jax spit again. Not so much blood this time. He took a deep breath to clear his head and staggered to his feet. Gun barrels swung his way.

“Are you shitting me? You think we had something to do with that? Those bullets were flying our direction, too, asshole.”

Lagoshin’s huge fists opened and closed. “Two of my men are dead—”

“It’s your business that almost just got us killed!” Jax snapped.

“But you two are unharmed!” Lagoshin shouted, pointing toward the park. “And your men there… they’re still standing!”

“My friends were shooting at the damn Camaro!”

“Hey…,” Opie muttered.

Jax didn’t like the tone of his voice. Troubled, he turned to see Opie pressing a hand to his left side, dark stains soaking into his T-shirt and spreading.

“Shit, Op…”

Opie hissed in through his teeth and took his hand away, showing the center of the blood spot blossoming on his shirt. “Grazed my ribs, I think. Nothing some stitches and a shit-ton of whiskey won’t cure.”

Pressing his hand against the wound again, Opie turned to Lagoshin. “You still think we’re in with whoever those guys were?”

Doubt flickered across Lagoshin’s scarred features, and he exhaled loudly, deflating. He waved his man away, and the guy hesitated only a second before starting back toward the SUV. The driver had gotten out and was putting the dead man into the trunk… the other corpse had been in the sedan that rushed away.

Police sirens warbled in the distance.

“Oleg works for a man named Kirill Sokolov,” Lagoshin said. “The men in that car were Sokolov’s—”

“You saw their faces?” Jax asked.

Lagoshin bared his teeth like a snarling dog. “I don’t need to see their faces.” He gestured toward Opie. “Do not think a little blood is very persuasive. We all bleed.”

The police sirens grew louder as Lagoshin turned and hurried down the steps to the waiting SUV, which tore away from the curb the moment he’d climbed inside.

“We gotta go,” Opie said, wincing as he started toward the street.

Wounded, he’d forgotten the guns. Bruised and bloody, head still ringing, Jax hurried to the church doors and retrieved them, then hustled back down. Chibs and Joyce were already on their bikes and kicked the engines into life. Jax and Opie straddled their bikes. Joyce started asking questions, but Chibs snapped at him to shut up and turned his bike around, glancing back at them, ready to fly.

“How we gonna play this?” Opie asked, ignoring Joyce. He grunted in pain as he kick-started his bike.

Jax started up his Harley. “Follow the lead we’ve got. Oscar Temple.”

Opie glanced at him. “You really gonna call Lagoshin if we figure out where Trinity and Oleg are holed up?”

With a grunt of pain, Jax wiped blood from his mouth and stared along the street where the Russians’ vehicles had gone.

“Damn right I am,” Jax said. “I can’t wait to see that prick again.”

They tore away from the church, two by two, maybe fifteen seconds ahead of the cops’ arrival. Jax held on tight as he rode, blackness swimming at the edges of his vision. His head and ribs throbbed with pain, but he held an image of Lagoshin in his mind, and that helped him focus.