Chapter 87 Sasha

• THE BULLET WOUND in my shoulder still burns days later. The cuts on my hands from shattered glass are barely healed. A normal man might have taken time to rest up and heal, but I don't have the luxury of wasting a single second. There are more pressing matters at hand.
• Turning the wooden bat in my fist, I slap it into my opposite palm. Blood flicks from the bat, staining the front of my shirt. Mila stands behind me, watching with a bored expression on her face as I turn my attention back to the object of my fury.
• "Stop, God, please fucking stop!" Sergei roars.