"I'll be fine. This is what I do." He leans in close, so close I can feel his breath on my skin. "But I need to know you'll be here when I get back."
"I will be."
I swallow, picking his phone up from the centre console between us and inputting my number, texting my phone.
"Just in case you need me. In case Laurie needs me."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, searching for something. Then he nods and pulls away, taking his phone and checking his gun before slipping out of the car. I watch him disappear into the shadows between warehouses, moving like smoke, like death.
Yakov
The moment I step away from the car, I force myself to focus.
It's harder than it should be.
Laney's scent still clings to me. Orange and jasmine, clean and sweet, completely at odds with the violence I'm about to commit. I can still feel the softness of her skin under my thumb, the way her breath hitched when I told her she was mine.
Focus.
I move through the shadows between warehouses, keeping low, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The address the Albanian gave me before I put a bullet in his brain is three buildings down. A squat concrete structure with boarded windows and a single entrance facing the parking lot.
Amateur hour.
Zajmi's getting sloppy, or he doesn't think anyone's looking for him. Either way, it's going to cost him.
I circle the building, checking for sentries, cameras, alternate exits. There's a loading dock around back, door propped open with a cinderblock. Cigarette butts scattered on the ground.
I pull my gun and move closer, listening.
Voices inside. Albanian. Two, maybe three men. One of them laughing at something.
I check my phone. No signal here, but I'd called Kaiden before we left the Strip. He should be on his way with a crew, ETA twenty minutes at the very most.
Twenty minutes is a long time when you're alone in enemy territory.
I slip through the loading dock door, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior. The warehouse is mostly empty, a few pallets stacked against the walls, some old equipment rusting in corners. But in the center, there's a makeshift office built from plywood and plastic sheeting.
That's where the voices are coming from.
I move closer, keeping to the shadows. Through gaps in the plastic, I can see them, three men sitting around a folding table, playing cards. Guns on the table within easy reach.
Beyond the office, at the far end of the warehouse, there's another enclosed space. A metal shipping container. The kind you can lock from the outside.
I’d stake my life that's where they're keeping the women.
I need to clear the office first.
I wait, patient, watching their patterns. The one facing away from me gets up and stretches as he checks his phone. The one on the left is drinking, already half-drunk by the look of him. The other is alert, dangerous, his hand never far from his gun.
He'll be first.
The drunk one gets up to piss, stumbling toward a bucket in the corner. The moment his back is turned, I move, silent and fast.
I put a bullet in the alert one's head before he can reach for his weapon. The second shot takes the one checking his phone in the chest. He goes down gasping.
The drunk one spins around, fumbling for his gun.
I shoot him in the throat.
