Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I didn't nod, didn't react. Just let my breath out slow, my lungs burning with the need for action.
Mac exhaled, his voice tense in my ear. "Your call."
The street remained quiet, tension coiling in my muscles, my body humming with adrenaline.
Then the back passenger door of the sedan opened.
A man stepped out, clicking the door shut and taking up a casual position against a tree. The sedan slowly pulled away, heading around the corner.
Broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit that fit too well for someone who worked for a man like Solovyov. His stance was relaxed, but there was an edge to the way he moved. Controlled. Precise. A man used to violence. The light caught the flash of a signet ring on his right hand. It was gold, ostentatious, a killer playing at sophistication.
Not just any new recruit.
This was their new executioner.
And that meant I was looking at the man who had tried to kill my wife. The attempt had been quick, messy. A drive-by at the restaurant where we'd been celebrating our wedding. The memory of shattering glass and Marina's scream still clawed at my insides. Pure luck had saved her, and I'd been too focused on getting her to safety to pursue him then. But now, with her secure at the compound, I could tie up this loose end.
My fingers twitched, adrenaline surging through me like a shot of pure vodka. The weight of my gun seemed to lighten, becoming an extension of my arm, my anger. This would not be a quiet night.
I wondered if Marina would like a puppy. Or was she more of a cat person? Maybe I'd surprise her with one for our first anniversary—no, not a cat. For her, I'd get a rabbit. A Soviet chinchilla rabbit. Soft, strong, and fast. Just like her. I could almost feel its velvet fur beneath my fingers, the way Marina's skin felt in the darkness.
"Anything yet?" Gregor's voice crackled in my earpiece. Damn that itch. I suppressed the urge to scratch. I hated these fucking comms, the way they buzzed and squirmed like insects in my ear.
"No," I murmured, leaning just enough out of the alley to check the street, the rough brick scraping my cheek.
The new mother with the stroller was further away now, vanishing around the corner, the puppy still sniffing at everything in sight, oblivious to the predators watching from the shadows.
I glanced toward the others.
Gregor and Artem were holed up in a black SUV a half block down. I didn't even want to imagine the dick measuring contest happening in there. God only knew what bullshit they were arguing over, but keeping the peace wasn't my problem. That was Pavel's headache to deal with.
Pavel was coordinating from the command vehicle with Gregor and Artem, monitoring police channels and keeping our exit routes clear. His voice was a steady murmur in the background of our comms, a constant stream of information that grounded us in the chaos.
Damien was stationed in another alley farther down, his silhouette barely visible in the shadows, just the glint of his watch when he moved. He lifted a hand. The silent signal that all was clear.
Mikhail was our eye in the sky, positioned on a rooftop across from the target. His rifle scope moved just slightly before his hand went up, flat and vertical. I could picture him up there, breathing slow and steady, his heartbeat probably not even breaking rhythm.
Despite the bite of winter in the air, a single bead of sweat traced a slow path down my spine, cold and insistent. My fingers tightened around my gun, the grip rough against my calluses.
Minutes ticked by. Then, the target stepped out of his front door, the sound of his expensive shoes on pavement unnaturally loud in the silence.
A senator. The one heading the Senate Narcotics Caucus. The one working with Gregor. The one targeted by Solovyov to discredit the Ivanovs and start a war. The scent of his expensive cologne reached me even from this distance, sandalwood and arrogance.
He was distracted, phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, a manila folder in one hand, his briefcase hanging open in the other.
His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, the look of a man in over his head. He had no fucking idea his life was hanging by a thread.
Solovyov’s new enforcer reached into his suit jacket to pull a gun from his holster. He then reached into his pocket to screw on a silencer.
"Mikhail?" I muttered, my voice a rough whisper.
"Got it," came the calm reply, ice in his tone.
A split second later, the enforcer’s body jerked before he fell in a heap behind a bush.
Mikhail said coolly, "Shooter neutralized."
Jesus. I hadn't even heard the shot. Just the stillness after, that perfect moment of death before the world realized what had happened.