Piotr continued, “In this business, there is much uncertainty. Is this person on the dark web who they say they are? Will this buyer turn out to be the police or a rival? Will these guns I am selling shoot my men on their next job?” He laughed a little. “Such a stereotypical Russian,da?Always ruminating on melancholy philosophy.But with this, we have certainty. When you called in the Archangel code to Basch Favre, then I knew for sure. That was the turning point. You, Raphael Mirabaud, are the Archangel source who committed treason against the Bratva and informed the police. Seventeen of us were killed in the raids, and many more are still in prison. For this, you will die, and your wife and daughter will die withyou because that is what happens to traitors to the Ilyin Bratva. It is tradition.”
The warehouse seemed to fill with sulfurous smoke, clamping Raphael’s throat shut. His eyes burned. The police weren’t coming, he knew, because Basch Favre had sold him out, but maybe Rogue Security would.
He prayed that Magnus and the Rogues would run for Flicka and Alina and leave him there on the floor todie. He prayed to every saint and angel he had neglected his whole life that the Rogues would save Flicka and Alina.
Raphael choked out, “You can’t kill the woman. That’s Princess Friederike Augusta von Hannover. She’s an international celebrity. Interpol will investigate her death.”
“I know who she is,” Piotr said. “She recently suffered a traumatic divorce. A suicide after such a terribleevent would be perfectly logical, especially since she has obviously hidden herself away in the world, where she became increasingly distraught and insane.”
“Hey!” Flicka said. Alina was still in her arms.
Piotr half-turned and motioned to the men at the back of the room. “Just the child.”
Flicka’s voice snarled above the quiet scuffle, “No,no!I won’t let you.I won’t let you take her.”
In the end, which was less than a minute, the men did take Alina away from Flicka. The brute ripped Alina out of Flicka’s arms and wrestled her away. Flicka struggled against him but didn’t scream or sob. Her green eyes glared like lasers. Her anger was deadly, focused rage, not hysteria.
She ended up on her knees on the floor, too, with her hands interlaced behind her head and a gun pointingat her temple. One of the assholes covered Flicka’s mouth with his black-gloved hand.
Alina fought like a wildcat, screaming and shredding the man’s face with her tiny nails as he walked across the warehouse toward Raphael. His body armor was probably preventing most of the damage from the toddler, but a scratch near his eye was bleeding where her needle-like nails had ripped him open. He spunher around so that she was facing away from him and gathered her arms across her chest. Alina shrilled harder, a siren that pierced Raphael through.
He assessed his options.
If he did something, if he jumped and attacked Piotr Ilyin, they would shoot Raphael in the head immediately. If he were dead, there would be no reason for them to torture Alina and Flicka. Their deaths might be quick bulletsto the head instead of whatever Piotr Ilyin had planned with his steel-toed boots. In any circumstance, their deaths would certainly be quicker. Raphael was quite certain that Piotr wasn’t a sadist, just an effective businessman in a brutal business.
He tucked his toes underneath his feet, readying himself to jump.
The man holding Alina approached them, trying to keep his head away from thechild who had blood on her hands from ripping at his skin. God, he was proud of her for fighting so hard.
Raphael gauged the man’s speed so he could jump at the least opportune moment, maybe even landing a punch or two before he was shot.
From the rafters, a man’s voice shouted,“Freeze! All of you!”
Raphael didn’t recognize the voice, but he sure as hell recognized that accent.
