She tried to kick him, but decided it wasn’t a good idea with a gun barrel pressed to her temple. The asshole called out to Albert, but got no reply. He tried again, inching closer to the broken window. Still no answer. On the pavement, in front of the smoking car, a pair of legs lay motionless. Something other than his usual malevolent sneer darkened Orlov’s ugly eyes. Rage. The arm around her waist clamped so tightly she could barely breathe. He manhandled her until they were against the wall, next to the blown window, as he tried to see what he was up against. For someone with an alligator bite, half-cooked on drugs, he was disappointingly strong. Acrid smoke began to fill the small room but he didn’t seem to notice or care. Then the bathroom door shattered and what air was left in her lungs vacated as Orlov crushed her to him. What the hell? They were being shot at. Who else had this asshole pissed off? And why was she stuck in the crossfire? Shitty dumbass luck. And her damn wig slipped, covering her right eye.
