I pressed my comm, keeping my eyes locked on the dying man in front of me. “Kirill.”
Static crackled, then Kirill’s voice came through, smooth and efficient. “Already halfway there, man. Donovan’s name came up in the chatter last week. FBI, but dirty, if I’m digging right.”
FBI.
My jaw tightened.
This wasn’t just a rival gang. This wasn’t some street-level crew trying to muscle in on Bratva territory.
This was Cassandra’s tormentor.
“Get me everything you can on him,” I said into the comm. “Background, connections, current location. Everything.”
“On it.”
I let my fist drop, stood up, and looked down at the man slumped against the beam. His eyes were glazing over, his breaths getting shallower.
He wouldn’t last much longer.
“Who does he work for?” I asked.
The man’s lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Who. Does. He. Work. For?”
He laughed again, softer this time, almost sad. “No one…anymore….”
Then his head dropped, and he stopped breathing.
I stared at him for a long moment, my chest burning, my hands still shaking with adrenaline.
Vance Donovan. Former FBI. Same man who had been threatening Cassandra.
And somehow, he’d known about the warehouse. Known about the shipment. Known exactly when and where to hit us.
Someone had fed him that information.
And I had a sinking feeling I knew who.
***
The drive home was a blur.
The stink of gunpowder and iron followed me all the way back, clinging to my skin, my clothes, my lungs. I could still feel the weight of my Glock in my hand, still hear the screams, still see the bodies.
By the time I walked through the door, it was past three in the morning.
Cassandra was awake.
She was curled up on the couch, wrapped in one of my shirts, her eyes red-rimmed like she’d been crying. When she saw me, she gasped and shot to her feet.
“Drew.” Her voice cracked. “Are you okay?”
I looked down at myself—blood splattered across my shirt, my hands stained dark, my jeans torn at the knee.
“It’s not mine,” I said flatly.
Her face went pale. “What happened?”
