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)
The senator kept walking, still shouting into his phone, still reading his papers, completely oblivious to how close he had come to death. The guardian angel he didn't know he had. Gregor would enlighten him later when he needed leverage over the crooked politician.
A job done clean. Fast. Efficient.
I had missed this. The certainty. The precision. The control. The rush that flooded my veins, better than any drug.
We held position until the senator drove off, then waited another few beats.
No alarms. No innocent witnesses. No trace.
I let out a slow breath, watching it fog in the cold air.
Time to go.
"All clear," Damien said into the comm, his voice rough with the aftermath of adrenaline.
We moved in, our footsteps synchronized by years of working together, the sound barely a whisper on the pavement.
Gregor and Artem took their time joining us, both wearing grim expressions.
Artem's jaw was clenched tight, an expression I'd only ever seen after he spoke with our father. The devil rest his soul. The muscle in his cheek jumped with each heartbeat, a living metronome of his rage.
Pavel and I shared a glance.
We both knew what was coming. Artem was going to lose his shit later. No escaping it. The fury burning behind his eyes was barely contained, like watching a volcano moments before eruption.
Mac remained in our vehicle, engine running, eyes scanning for any unexpected company while we assessed the scene. His silhouette was just visible through the windshield, a constant reminder of our escape route.
But first, we had to deal with the matter at hand.
The body sprawled behind the bushes, limbs akimbo like a discarded doll, blood pooling beneath him in a sticky, spreading puddle.
The assassin was lying on his stomach, his gun still clutched in one hand, fingers frozen in their death grip. I carefully removed the weapon and set it aside before Damien reached in and rolled him over. The body moved with the unnatural rigidity of fresh death, the sound wet and obscene.
A neat bullet hole sat between the man's eyes, a perfect dark circle punched through flesh and bone. Mikhail's work.
"Damn good shot," Pavel muttered, his breath visible in the cold air.
The man's face was intact. That was a small mercy, identifying him would be easier this way. His eyes stared upward, already glazing over, pupils blown wide in that last moment of surprise.
"Do any of you know him?" Gregor asked, voice level but firm, filling the space between us.
We all took a moment to study the corpse, the slack features that would never move again.
Russian. That much was clear from the tattoos inked across his neck, the familiar patterns of prison ink telling stories of crimes committed, blood spilled. But his face?
No recognition.
The others answered with simple shakes of their heads, the silence punctuated only by the soft hiss of our breath in the cold.
Damien crouched, patting the body down for anything useful, his gloved hands methodical in their invasion. He didn't find much. No ID, no phone, no wallet. Nothing but a few rounds of extra ammunition and a combat knife, its edge gleaming wickedly even in the dim light.
"That's professional," he said. "No paper trail." The respect in his voice was unmistakable.
I wasn't surprised. No serious assassin carried ID. If they got caught—or killed—it kept the heat off their families. Off the people they worked for. It was the same reason I never carried anything personal on a job. Nothing that could lead back to Marina.
"Well," Artem said, as he stepped closer, his expensive shoes inches from the spreading blood. He was pushing for control again.
Technically, he was out of line. This was Gregor's territory. His call. But Artem didn't see it that way. Never had.
"We know he worked for Solovyov," he continued, his voice carrying the sharp edge of authority. "Do we want him to know we took out another one of his men? Or let him wonder?"
Gregor exhaled, considering, his breath creating a momentary ghost between them. Then he shrugged. "He'll figure it out eventually. I say we send back the tattoos. A nice message for our old friend." The casual brutality in his words made the air feel colder.
Artem's eyes flashed, sharp as shattered glass. "No."
Pavel and I exchanged another glance, tension crackling between us. Here we go. The familiar dance beginning again.
Artem wasn't objecting because he had a better idea. He was objecting because he and Gregor were locked in a constant, unspoken power struggle, a tug of war that would only end when one of them was buried.
"I say we cover this up," Artem continued, each word like a bullet finding its mark. "Let Solovyov sweat. Let him wonder if his man ran scared, if he was captured, if he's dead. See how he reacts." His smile was all teeth, a predator's grin.
Gregor pressed his lips together, weighing the words, his fingertips drumming once against his thigh, the only tell he ever allowed himself.