Christopher Golden - Sons of Anarchy - Bratva

“Help is coming,” Chibs said.

The SAMNOVtore along the pavement toward the Wonderland Hotel, tires throwing up a cloud of dust and righteous fury. Rollie rode in the lead, an icy ball of dread and suspicion heavy in his gut. He’d known Jax’s father, J. T., and though the man had been arrogant as hell, he’d also been a man of honor. Death had come for him far too young. Too young to have had the proper influence on his son. That remained to be seen.

Hopper rode up on his left, gesturing toward the hotel. Rollie had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he’d stopped paying attention to anything but the heat lines rising from the pavement ahead. They were still half a mile from the hotel, but now that Hopper’d drawn his attention to it, Rollie saw the many vehicles parked out front.

Slower than before, he rode toward the hotel with the eight members of SAMNOV who’d been close enough to respond to his summons. Hopper and Baghead, Antonio and Thor, Clean and Bronson, Ugly Jim and Mikey the Prospect. Nine guys—that was what SAMNOV could muster. Enough to cause problems.

Gunfire cracked the air. A gunman patrolled the roof. Two men ran around the perimeter, and one of them took shots at the guy on the roof, hoping to get in a lucky shot.

Rollie pulled his bike onto the dirt shoulder, engine growling as it idled. Thor drew up next to him on one side, and Hopper on the other, while the rest of his club halted behind them, waiting.

“What now?” Thor asked. “You’re not going to get any answers from Jax in the middle of this shit.”

Rollie dragged his goggles up and squinted at Thor in the glare of the sun. “Now we back him up. You think I’d leave our brothers in the middle of a crisis?”

Thor smiled thinly, ready for a fight.

“What about the Russians?” Hopper asked. “How do we know which ones are on our side and which ones are with Jax?”

Rollie thought about that a second, staring at the hotel. Then he dragged his goggles down, fitting them carefully over his eyes. He turned and raised his voice, making sure the rest of his men could hear him.

“Hard and fast!” he barked. “Take out anyone who takes a shot at you. If we get any friendly-fire killings in here, it’s damn well not gonna be one of us!”

He twisted the throttle, and the rear wheel tore up the dirt shoulder.

Cavalry’s coming, Jackson, Rollie thought. For better or worse .

Jax and Opie raced through the lobby, encountering nothing but sunlight and shattered glass. Opie turned left, and Jax turned right, taking aim through broken windows in case some of Lagoshin’s men had gone back inside. Jax felt as if he skated along the surface of a death that yawned wide beneath him, but he and Opie were in the flow now, and there was no time for second guesses.

Gunfire drew them to the west wing of the hotel, which had a couple of floors of guest rooms on top of a trio of ballrooms, two on the first floor and one off the mezzanine.

Jax put his back to the wall, motioned for Opie to halt. On the wide steps up to the mezzanine, Oleg and Vlad crouched behind marble balusters, shooting through the openings at the double doors of a first-floor ballroom. Jax caught a glimpse of a short gunman just inside the ballroom, saw the oily sheen of his skin and the dead fish eyes and recognized Viktor Krupin instantly. The gunshot wound in his shoulder had to hurt like hell, but it hadn’t slowed him down.

He swung around the corner and fired a burst from the TsNIITochMash. One of the bullets brushed by Krupin’s face close enough to dry his sweat, and the Russian dodged back into the ballroom.

Jax ran down the hall, TsNIITochMash at the ready. Opie shouted angrily at him for breaking cover but followed anyway. Oleg and Vlad saw them coming and stood, moving down the stairs, covering the ballroom’s doors. One of Lagoshin’s men showed himself, ducking low as he fired a shot at Jax and Opie. All four men returned fire, and at least two of the bullets struck home. The guy slammed against the door frame and then slid back into the room, leaving a wide smear of blood on the frame and wall.

Alive or dead? Jax wondered. Probably dead .

“How many more?” Opie asked.

“At least three,” Vlad said.

With Jax and Opie on one side and Oleg and Vlad on the other, the men inside the ballroom were pinned down unless they chose another exit. If they came out these doors, they would be in the middle of a cross fire.

“We’ve got to get to Trinity,” Oleg said desperately, glancing back up the stairs toward the mezzanine.

Jax froze. “Where?”

“Follow me.” Oleg moved back to the steps, glancing at Vlad. “Kill them if you can.”

Vlad nodded, smiling. “Send help.”

Oleg did not reply. Jax saw him moving toward the steps and glanced at Opie, who only nodded.

“Go,” Opie told him.

Jax didn’t hesitate. He raced across the killing floor, the space between Opie and Vlad where the Russians in the ballroom would have a clear shot at him from inside. He held his assault rifle ready, caught a glimpse of Krupin, but the man pulled back out of sight, perhaps remembering the breeze on his nose from Jax’s bullet.

Then he was racing up the stairs after Oleg. When he hit the mezzanine, he saw that Oleg had stopped to wait for him in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out at the back of the hotel, toward the empty swimming pool and the overgrown back lot. Oleg pointed out the window, and Jax glanced across the lot. From that window, they had a clear view from the west wing to east. At first he saw nothing, but then he spotted movement in a guest room window, one floor up and across from them. A flash of strawberry blond hair and then a dark figure, a broad man whose silhouette Jax knew immediately—Chibs.

The sound of gunfire had punctuated every moment since their arrival—some near and some distant—but he felt sure some of it was coming from that guest room on the third floor of the east wing.

“Fastest way,” Jax said.

Oleg darted back along the balcony portion of the mezzanine. Down below, he spotted Opie and Vlad, heard Opie shouting for Krupin and his men to throw out their guns and he’d let them live. Then Oleg reached a fire door, and Jax followed him through it. They hustled up the steps to the third floor, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor there.

Jax glanced right and left, oriented himself, and ran to the right without waiting for Oleg. There were guest rooms here, two floors above the lobby. Stay alive, he thought, mentally commanding both Trinity and Chibs.

A fire door blocked the other end of the corridor—an entrance into the east wing—and he and Oleg hurtled toward it.

Lagoshin spat curses as he erupted from an open guest room door, crashed into Jax, and slammed him into the peeling wallpaper on the opposite side of the hall. The TsNIITochMash flew from Jax’s grip and skidded along the carpet, far out of reach. Jax still had the bruises to remind him of the last time he’d met the massive Russian, and he didn’t want a repeat. He tried to twist free, but Lagoshin got a hand on his throat, smashed his head against the wall, and started to lift him off the ground. Jax’s back slid up the wallpaper, and his sneakers left the carpet.

Oleg shouted at them and raised his assault rifle, and one of Lagoshin’s men emerged from the guest room. The barrel of his handgun gleamed in the dusty daylight. Jax tried to shout Oleg’s name, but the Russian fired. The bullet ripped through Oleg’s gut and then lodged in the wall. Blood sprayed as Oleg went down. On the ground, he raised his AR-12 and fired, killing the man who’d shot him.