Chapter 9 - THE FINAL BATTLE
The plaza erupted into chaos. Pedestrians screamed, scattering in every direction as Volkov’s men abandoned all subtlety and opened fire across the concrete steps.
From the top of the stairs, the Federal Marshals drew their sidearms, returning fire down into the plaza, driving two of Volkov’s shooters behind the central fountain.
"This way!" I shouted, guiding Luna toward the lowered ramp of the basement service bay fifty yards away.
A figure emerged from behind a delivery truck, blocking the entrance to the ramp.
Lev Volkov.
His left arm was bound in a sling, his face pale and burned from the flare, but his right hand held a nickel-plated revolver aimed directly at my chest.
"You ruined everything, you little bitch!" Volkov shrieked, his eyes wide with unhinged, violent insanity. "I spent ten years building this network! I won't let a dog walker hand it to the feds!"
Before he could pull the trigger, Roman stepped into the space between us.
He didn't draw his gun. He moved with a terrifying, supernatural speed, driving his left shoulder straight into Volkov’s chest, slamming the older mobster against the corrugated metal bay door.
The revolver discharged harmlessly into the concrete ceiling, the loud report echoing through the subterranean space.
Volkov swung his heavy arm, striking Roman across the jaw, driving him back onto one knee. Volkov raised the revolver again, lining up a shot at Roman’s head.
"Luna! Halt und fass!" I screamed—the high-level protection command Roman had told me her mother had been trained on in Kabul.
Luna launched herself from my side like a black arrow.
She crossed the twenty feet of concrete in less than a second, her jaws locking around Volkov’s right wrist with a force that shattered bone. The revolver clattered away across the floor.
Volkov let out a high, blood-curdling scream as the ninety-pound Shepherd drove him into the dirt, holding him pinned under her massive frame without tearing his throat—executing the exact, controlled restraint I had spent two weeks teaching her in the clinic.
Roman hauled himself up, stepped forward, and kicked the dropped revolver into the drain. He looked down at Volkov, his face cold, distant, and entirely victorious.
"It’s over, Lev," Roman said softly.
Two dozen Federal Marshals rushed down the ramp, their boots thundering against the concrete, weapons raised, sweeping the area and securing Volkov in heavy steel cuffs.
The chief Marshal stepped up to Roman, looking at the drive Roman held out in his hand.
May you like
"Roman Kyodori?" the Marshal asked.
"Yes," Roman replied, taking a deep breath and wrapping his arm around my shoulders, drawing me close against his side. "I’m here to submit the evidence."
