VOLOVOI PULLED HIMSELF off the hardwood, struggling to slow the flow of blood from his wounds.
Pavel had shot him three times in the stomach. The wounds bled black. They burned, a blinding-hot fiery pain. His shoulder ached where Bogdan Urzica had shot him at the gas station. It seemed like years ago.
The apartment was silent around him. The walls were strafed with shrapnel from Pavel’s gun, the furniture shredded. Catalina Milosovici was gone. The Dragon had chased after her. The apartment was empty.
Volovoi couldn’t hear the police yet, but he knew they were coming. Somebody would report the gunshots. The NYPD would arrive. Sooner or later, they’d make the connection, and then the FBI would show up, and if Volovoi didn’t die, he would spend the rest of his life in jail.
This was okay, Volovoi decided. This was not the worst-case scenario.
The Dragon was the worst-case scenario.
He’d been stabbed. Catalina Milosovici had somehow overpowered him, put a knife in him. She’d managed to escape. But the Dragon wasn’t dead. And as long as the Dragon survived, Volovoi couldn’t rest. Not with his family still out in the world. Not with his nieces at risk.
Volovoi pushed himself to his feet. Propped himself against the couch and gathered his strength. In a closet by the front door, he found a couple shirts, a coat. He tore a shirt to shreds, wrapped it around his torso. Pulled the jacket over top and clutched it around him. Held his pistol tight and hoped he had the strength to point it at the Dragon when he saw the chance.
Leaning against the wall with his good shoulder, Volovoi limped toward the Dragon’s ruined door. Edged out into the hallway and saw nothing, no curious neighbors, no onlookers, no cops. Not yet.
Perfect.
He struggled into the hall. Made his way down the corridor. He felt better now, a little, now that he was upright. Now that he had a goal in mind.
He would find the Dragon. He would kill the Dragon. Then, if he had any strength left, he would figure out a way to get out of this city.
Volovoi reached the elevators. Pressed the call button and waited, fighting waves of nausea and dizziness, that fire-poker pain in his belly. The elevator arrived. Volovoi slipped inside. Leaned against the mirrored walls and pressed the button for the lobby. He was leaking all over the polished floor. More blood. Big deal.
The elevator door closed. The car dropped toward the lobby. Find the Dragon, he told himself. Kill him. And get out of Manhattan.