Christopher Golden - Sons of Anarchy - Bratva

Growing up, she’d heard ugly stories about assassinations and bombings and brutal beatings that had filtered into her nightmares and daydreams. The nearness of such crimes had a greater potency than lullabies and bedtime stories. Trinity had understood quite young that she would have to take care of herself. She was able, and more than willing.

But in that moment behind the counter, what haunted her was that for all the crimes and punishments that the RIRA had doled out—or that she’d heard about—the whispers about the Bratva were worse. If Lagoshin and Krupin got their hands on her, she would be used to send a message to Kirill and Oleg. Would they cut off her hands and feet and breasts? Would they set her on fire?

She exhaled, shivering with a chill that should have been impossible with the heat of the day radiating through the windows.

If she’d been Krupin’s girlfriend and the situation were reversed, what would Oleg have done to her?

The question made her want to scream, but worse than that was the idea that whatever harm, whatever obscenity might be perpetrated upon her, it would be to use her as a tool, a message, an example. If she was going to die like this, she wanted it to be because of things she’d done, not whom she was sleeping with.

Keeping low, she rushed along behind the counter and then popped her head up. Through the plate-glass windows, she could see a massive black SUV and a charcoal-gray sedan, but they were off to the right. Men were standing behind them, but she was in the shadows, and she thought they might not see her. A pair of gunmen ran from the sedan to circle around the hotel. She waited, holding her breath while they passed, and then she was up and over the counter.

Trinity hit the floor in a tumble, came up on one knee and glanced at the windows again. How many cars, how many men? It didn’t matter, really. The answer was too many .

She bolted, willing them not to see her. She expected shouting and gunshots, but then she darted into the corridor, felt the crunch of crusty old carpet under her boots, and knew she was clear.

Gun .

It was the only word in her head. Her right hand clenched and unclenched, yearning for the weight of a weapon. Guns are hateful things, Maureen Ashby had always said to young Trinity, but remember, love, that bullets are like presents—better to give than receive . It was how Maureen had justified so much of the family’s violence.

Trinity reached her room, twisted the knob, slipped inside without banging the door. Her gun was where she’d left it, top shelf of the closet underneath a leather jacket she’d had no use for since they’d arrived in Vegas. Loaded, always.

She was out in the corridor in a handful of heartbeats, glancing both ways. Slipping into the hallway, she heard glass shatter in the lobby, and suddenly her options had narrowed. Lagoshin’s men were coming in. They’d search the hotel. Trinity couldn’t shoot her way out, which meant the only question that mattered was: Where could she hide? Where could she tuck herself away and still have an exit strategy?

Elevator shaft? The doors were wedged open, and she could get in, maybe drop down to the elevator itself, hide in the dark. But where the hell could she run from there?

Walk-in freezer in the kitchen? Dead end. As was every bathroom and guest room, all of which they’d search. Doors banged open. She heard wood splinter.

Upstairs .

She bolted past the alcove with the ice machine and a dusty-faced Coke machine. A voice shouted in Russian, profanity that she’d become more than familiar with. Trinity glanced to her left, saw the window and the tree beyond it—saw the Bratva killer beyond the tree and the way he stared. He pointed at the window, at her, shouting, and all choice had been taken from her. She ran to the z junction in the hallway, jogged right, hidden from all eyes, and then shoved through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Service stairs.

Exhaling, she ran, hating even the quiet scuffing of her boots on the steps. Second floor. Third floor. So much for her one asset, them not knowing she was there.

A small door—strangely small—on the third floor landing of the service stairs. She tried the latch and blinked in surprise when it opened. Gray light filtered through some kind of venting at the top of the stairwell, and a fraction of it came down inside the room on the other side of that door.

Not a room. A shaft. Service elevator.

Jamming her gun into the waistband of her jeans, Trinity climbed into that near darkness. Dusty metal rungs ran up and down the interior wall, just to her right, and she grabbed hold, reached out, and pulled the small door closed.

Up was the only option. Not a good one, but there were no good options here.

The metal rungs were cold to the touch. She moved fast, the gun jamming into her with every step. Fourth floor. Fifth floor, and it was taking too long. They’d be searching everywhere by now. Banging open doors and looking under beds.

Top of the shaft, beneath the mechanisms of the elevator and the vents that let in that dim gray light, she felt around and found a latch—another small door. She twisted it, put her weight into it, and the metal screeched as she forced it open. Blinking against the bright sunlight, she poured herself through the tiny door and found herself in a small alcove on the roof. Tucked between the elevator housing and the angled structure where the service stairs exited the roof, she was hidden from sight on three sides.

The sun had been cooking the top of the building for hours, and the heat baked up from every surface. Still, she took a moment to breathe. Hidden there, she felt as if she could just wait for help to arrive or for the intruders to give up and leave. If she hadn’t been seen, she might have been able to do just that.

But she had been seen. They knew she was in the building, and it wouldn’t be long before one of them came up to search the roof. When that happened, the alcove would not keep her hidden… it would keep her cornered.

She drew her gun and stepped from the alcove, glanced around and then hurried toward the front of the building.

The Wonderland Hotel varied in height from back to front. At the edge of the rearmost section, Trinity stared down along the Spanish tiles that sloped to the third floor and wondered if she could scramble down them without falling. From there, she could drop down on top of the portico breezeway at the front, where cars had once pulled up so bellmen could take their luggage. If she was quiet… if she was careful to wait until nobody was in sight… she might make it to one of their cars. Were any of the engines still running?

Don’t think—move!

Carefully, she put one tentative foot on the sloping tiles, then realized that she needed to sit—to slide down instead of trying to stay on her feet. It might make more noise, but there was less chance of dying in the attempt.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Then she heard the engines. The low rumble of an approaching car. The grinding, growling roar of a couple of Harley-Davidsons.

Hope flickered inside her, and she glanced up. Four cars and two motorcycles. Her boys would be outnumbered, but they were coming. She didn’t even need to warn them because they’d see the cars out front.

The service door clanged open behind her.

Trinity’s heart went still. Her grip on the gun tightened and she spun around, taking aim even as she did so. The blond guy who’d come out onto the roof hadn’t really expected to find her there, so he wasted a couple of seconds blinking at the sudden reality of her presence before he swung his gun toward her.

She pulled the trigger three times and managed to shoot him once, in the left leg. The sound of the bullet tearing wetly into flesh made her feel sick. The pain and the impact toppled him sideways, and he slammed to the roof with a grunt. His gun flew from his fingers and skittered a few feet from him. Wounded, trailing blood, he scrabbled toward the gun, calling her bitch, whore, and worse in his own language—why had she only learned the ugly words?