I can’t help the bit of pride that swells in my chest.
“Keep to the shadows,” I instruct the small team that has joined us just inside the gate. “Remember, shoot only when necessary. We don’t want to alert any of Christian’s men. The red armbands are Kavanaugh’s men. Don’t shoot them. And always watch your brother’s back.”
There is a murmur of understanding from my men. Vas hands Ava her earbud, and I grow jealous of the small smile she gives him. An actual smile. Not the shit she’s been giving me.
Lucky for my second in command, Mark has cleared the comm lines and announced it is time to make our move.
Vas takes point, his Beretta 9mm at the chest-ready position as he leads us through the maze of containers. Ava is sandwiched between us, her Smith and Wesson the perfect fit for her hands as she too holds her gun at her chest.
Good girl, I can’t help but think as I watch her like a hawk while sweeping my gaze around us. It is quiet. The sound of the ocean lapping at the cement retaining wall is easily heard above the muffled sounds of our boots on crunching gravel.
Vas holds up a closed fist, signaling us to freeze where we are. The three of us wait in tense silence as he scans his surroundings. With a quickness that only Vas can pull off, mysovietnikholsters his gun before pulling about his karambit, a curved steel blade designed specifically for slicing and cutting.
Ava gasps slightly, her hand position faltering o her gun as she struggles to contain her surprise as Vas surges forward, wrapping his free hand around a stray guard’s mouth before slicing open his neck.
The guard goes down quietly. Vas supports the dead weight to keep the noise of his fall from spreading. Turning her head to the side, Ava retches, a small choking sob burrowing up her throat following just behind.
“This is why you should have waited in the car,” I sigh, offering her a handkerchief. “You don’t belong here, Ava. You’re too fragile.” Ava rights herself, her shoulder pushed back, eyes narrowed when she turns to me. With a small growl, she slaps the offered handkerchief from my hand and turns her back to me.
I shrug, not giving any attention to her childlike behavior. She knows I am right, but that doesn’t make the pain in my chest disappear from seeing the flash of hurt in her eyes.
“Let’s keep moving.” Vas frowns at me in obvious disappointment. He looks like I just kicked his puppy, but needs to learn, just like he does.
This is no place for her.
sixteen
The nerve of this man.
The gall he has to say thatIdon’t belong.
Balls of fucking steel, this one.
Who the hell does he think he is? I’m already mortified enough, and the prick has to go and rub it in. Smear my face in it like some high school reject. I hadn’t meant to vomit. In my defense, I’ve never seen a man have his throat cut open like a filleted fish before either.
I’ve seen Elias beat the ever-loving shit out of people, but I’ve never seen anyone kill like that before. So violently. So easily. Vas didn’t even break a sweat, and there was no remorse in his light eyes either. Just like Matthias, he’s a killer. I know that. I’ve always known that. But seeing and knowing are two different things.
“Approaching containers,” Vas whispers, the sound traveling through the comm lines in our ears that are activated by the vibrations in our jaws.
So basically, whenever we speak.
Or cough.
Or in my case, vomit.
We round the corner, our group converging with Liam’s. The containers loom before us, their faded paint revealing the rusted, damaged metal below.
“Huh.” I squint at the first container and pull out my flashlight for a better look. The small light is just enough to see what catches my eye. I run my finger down one of the latches, catching the small debris between my fingers and rubbing slightly. “Sand. That’s weird.”
“Why’s that weird?” Vas asks curiously, leaning in closer for a better look. “This container could have traveled to hundreds of places, and this is what’s left over.”
I shake my head.
“Mark checked over the containers’ shipping receiver.” I hold up my phone to Vas. I’ve written down each individual country code this container has ever been to. “None of those regions have a sandy docking port. Those are all concrete ports.”
“How do you know that?” Maksim asks from behind Matthias.
“I memorize the coded index where Elias sends his shipping containers,” I inform them with a shrug. “There shouldn’t be sand on this container.”
