Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Andrey waited near the center of the yard, just where I knew he would… far enough from cover to look confident, close enough to his exits to run. He was a coward down to the marrow.
He’d brought several men. Not his usual crew but hired muscle with visible sidearms. They were the kind of mercenaries who thought looking dangerous made them dangerous.
But I noticed right away they fanned poorly by overlapping sightlines and displayed no discipline. Placeholders. Exactly what I’d expected.
His gaze sharpened as he looked around before he snapped his focus back to me. “Where is she?” he demanded, the tightness in his voice betraying him.
I didn’t answer.
His eyes flicked around again, sharper now as he searched frantically, his anger growing by the second. When he didn’t see her, irritation cracked his composure.
“You were supposed to bring her,” he said, stepping forward. “This ends tonight.”
“It does,” I said calmly. “Just not the way you planned.”
Andrey’s mouth twitched, the faintest crack in his mask. He glanced at the yard, at his men, then back at me like he was recalculating in real time. “You always did like theatrics,” he said. “Dragging this out. You could have ended it already.”
“I did,” I replied.
That caught his attention. His eyes sharpened, narrowing.
My jaw tightened, but my voice stayed level. “I found him. He begged like all of you do. I killed him anyway, thinking about how you would be next.”
A thin smile crept across Andrey’s face, ugly and knowing. “And did that bring her back?” he asked. “Did it fix you?”
“No,” I said. “But it taught me something.”
“And what’s that?” he pressed.
“That men like you don’t stop,” I said. “You just change hands.” I had my focus on him, but I was very aware of every move his men made.
Something flickered behind his eyes then. Not bravado or arrogance. But uncertainty. He took a step back without realizing it, boots scraping against concrete. “You think this ends with me?” he said. “You think I was ever the only one?”
“I know you weren’t,” I said.
His jaw clenched. His men shifted nervously, their trigger fingers no doubt twitchy. One of them glanced at Andrey as if he were waiting for a signal that never came.
“You took her to use against me,” Andrey said, irritation threading through his voice. Not outrage, or even grief. Just sinister offense. “You thought she would make me fold.”
“You did,” I said evenly. “You gave me everything because you were too busy worrying I’d spoil your merchandise.”
His face didn’t change, but something in his eyes went flat and murderous.
“You touched her,” he seethed quietly.
“I didn’t ruin her,” I replied, voice calm as ice. “I claimed her.”
His jaw flexed hard.
“You made her useless,” he snapped. “You think anyone will pay top-tier for something that’s already been handled?”
There it was. Loss of market value. I took a slow step closer, and his men braced.
“She was never an asset,” I said. “You just dressed her up that way.”
His nostrils flared. “You destroyed her.”
“No,” I corrected softly. “I freed her and destroyed your illusion of control.”
That was when one of his men moved. He was too eager for action. He was the kind of idiot who thought pulling first made him alpha. His shoulders tensed before his brain caught up. I saw it in the way his jaw set, the way his grip shifted on the gun, as if he were about to do something reckless. His arm came up, weapon jerking toward me, muzzle wavering because he wasn’t steady.
He was trying to show off, but there was no point in proving anything here. They were all dead men.
I drew as his finger tightened. Using steady and calm composure and muscle memory. I fired once, center mass at the base of his throat before his first shot even broke clean.
The round hit high and hard. His head snapped back, and a wet, choking sound tore out of him as blood sprayed in a violent arc across the concrete and Andrey’s coat. He dropped straight down, hands clawing at his neck, trying to hold in something that wouldn’t stay.
Gunfire cracked through the yard. It wasn’t cinematic or even controlled. It was loud, violent, and disorienting. Muzzle flashes strobed against rusted steel, and the smell of burned powder hit the air instantly, thick and metallic. Rounds sparked off containers and bit into concrete near my feet.
I was moving, dodging, shifting, my composure ice-cold and hard as steel. Two steps left, low and steady. I fired again, deliberate and controlled, not wasting rounds. The man closest to the rail line jerked when the bullet punched through his chest. He staggered back, hit the metal siding behind him, and slid down, leaving a thick smear of blood as he collapsed.
The whole place had erupted into chaos, but I knew Andrey wasn’t firing. He was watching.