Badass in Disguise Chapter 219

Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" drifted through the ballroom as I typed out a response to Ethan's latest message.

"Hey, beauty, honor me with a dance?" Night appeared beside me, extending his hand with exaggerated formality. His gray eyes gleamed with mischief under the crystal chandeliers.

"Pass," I replied without looking up, tapping out a response to Ethan's latest message. My phone buzzed almost immediately with his reply.

Night peered over my shoulder, his smile fading as he spotted Ethan's name. "Seriously? You're texting Haxton while ignoring me?"

"I'll dance with you if she won't," Chris joked, reaching for Night's hand.

Night swatted Chris's hand away like it carried the plague. "Fuck off," he muttered, glaring at him.

"Can't you see she's busy?" Chris laughed, nodding toward my phone.

Night's jaw tightened as he looked back at my screen. "Are you actually into that old man? Haxton's gotta be what—thirty?"

I ignored him.

"Don't be like that," Night persisted, his tone hardening. "That guy isn't right for you. I don't like him."

I turned my face away, refusing to engage.

Chris stepped between us, playing peacemaker. "Relax, man. They're just friends at this point, maybe with a little interest. That's miles away from dating or anything serious. You're acting like she's about to marry him. What's with the tension?"

"If he wants to pursue my baby, it won't be easy," Night declared, his accent thickening with emotion.

I rolled my eyes and slipped my phone into my clutch. "Are we leaving or what? I've had enough Russian elites for one night."

Night checked his watch. "It's early, but I suppose we've made enough of an appearance."

We made our excuses to our host and slipped out through the side entrance where Night's black SUV waited. The valet handed Night the keys with a respectful nod.

As we settled into the vehicle, Moscow's lights glittered against the night sky. Night started the engine, and we pulled away from the opulent estate.

"How long before Hunter tries something stupid?" Chris asked from the backseat, loosening his tie.

"Seven minutes," I answered, checking my pistol's magazine before sliding it back into place with a satisfying click.

Night glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "That specific, huh? I say ten minutes minimum."

"I'll go with four minutes," Chris added, leaning forward between the seats. "His ego can't handle waiting any longer than that. Want to make it interesting?"

"Sure," Night replied. "Loser takes the poker debt from earlier."

"Deal," Night agreed, pressing the accelerator. The SUV surged forward, engine growling as we hit the main road.

As we approached the commercial district, the streets grew quieter. I counted down silently, watching the shadows between buildings. Right on cue, headlights flashed from side streets as multiple black SUVs converged on our position.

"Right on time," I murmured as Night swerved to avoid a collision.

The first shots pinged against our reinforced doors. They were aiming at the tires and engine block—not the windows. Whoever was shooting clearly wanted to disable the vehicle, not kill its occupants.

"Seven minutes exactly," Chris noted, checking his watch. "Jade wins."

Night cursed in Russian as he jerked the wheel, trying to break through the encirclement. More vehicles appeared, forming a blockade across the road ahead. He slammed on the brakes, bringing us to a skidding halt.

"Twelve vehicles, at least twenty-five men," I counted, peering through the tinted windows. "They've been waiting for us."

Night didn't hesitate. He rolled down his window just enough to extend his arm and fired three precise shots. Two of Hunter's men dropped immediately.

A familiar figure emerged from behind an armored car—Hunter Whitmore, his arm and leg still bandaged from his self-inflicted wounds at the party. He stayed behind cover, shouting through a megaphone.

"Night! I have no quarrel with you! Just hand over that bitch, and we can all walk away!"

Night's expression darkened. He fired again, the bullet grazing Hunter's car inches from his head. Hunter ducked, nearly falling in his panic.

"Night, stop!" Hunter yelled. "Be reasonable! Give me the woman, and I promise you and your friend can leave without a scratch. Otherwise, my men won't hold back!"

Night switched to Russian, unleashing a stream of profanities that would make a sailor blush. He fired again, deliberately missing Hunter but making him cower.

"Are you insane?" Hunter screamed. "You'd kill me over some woman? Do you know who my father is? I'm a senator's son, for Christ's sake!"

I slid out from the passenger side, the weight of my Benelli M4 shotgun comfortable in my hands. While Night kept Hunter distracted, I moved silently between vehicles, positioning myself for a clear shot at Hunter's SUV.

One of his guards spotted me and raised his weapon. I fired first, the shotgun's blast echoing through the night. The guard crumpled. I pumped the shotgun and continued my approach.

I took aim at the fuel tank of Hunter's vehicle and pulled the trigger. The explosion was immediate and spectacular. Orange flames burst upward as the SUV's gas tank ignited, sending a shockwave that knocked Hunter off his feet despite his bodyguard's warning shout.

Night used the confusion to advance, picking off the guards who were trying to help Hunter escape. His shots weren't lethal—he was toying with them, bullets kicking up pavement around their feet like he was making them dance.

Hunter scrambled away on all fours, his injured leg dragging behind him. His face was a mask of terror as he realized how badly he had miscalculated.

"You—you can't do this," he stammered as Night approached, gun aimed casually at his kneecap. "My father will—"

The bullet tore through Hunter's knee, cutting off his sentence and replacing it with a scream of agony. He collapsed, clutching his shattered joint.

"Your father will what?" Night asked, crouching beside the whimpering man.

Hunter crawled backward, leaving a smear of blood on the asphalt. "You can't kill me," he gasped. "My father won't let you get away with this."

Night didn't respond. Instead, he stood and fired at another nearby SUV. The bullet punctured its fuel tank, and seconds later, another explosion lit up the night sky.

Chris joined us, his own pistol in hand. "My turn," he said, aiming at a different vehicle and firing. Another explosion rocked the street.

I selected my own target, sending a shotgun shell into a fourth SUV. The blast was satisfying, the vehicle erupting into flames.

One by one, we methodically triggered explosions, turning Hunter's fleet into a ring of fire. Each shot, each explosion, made Hunter flinch and cower lower to the ground. By the time we finished, he'd soiled himself, the dark stain visible on his pants as he lay surrounded by burning wreckage.

Distant sirens wailed, growing louder by the second.

"Time to go," Night said, holstering his weapon. We returned to our SUV, leaving Hunter sobbing in the middle of his destroyed convoy.

As we sped away, AC/DC blasted through the speakers. Night drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his earlier anger completely gone.

"I'm thinking sushi," Chris suggested from the backseat, as casual as if we were leaving a movie theater rather than a battlefield.

"I could go for some vodka," Night countered.

I leaned back in my seat, watching Moscow's skyline recede in the side mirror. "Both sound good to me."

Behind us, the flames climbed higher, a beacon that would keep the police busy long after we'd disappeared into the night.