I’m about to gouge his eyes out when the car swerves and comes to a screeching halt. The force is so strong that I bump against the back of Aleksander’s seat. “What is it?” Kirill barks at his driver in Russian. “Don’t know, sir. There’s something on the road—” His words cut off when a shot lodges straight in his chest. Aleksander gets his gun out, cursing, but it’s too late. Gunshots erupt from all directions. We’re under attack.
