“Transfer is set for midnight. Once it clears, you burn the shop, kill the woman.” Sokolov’s voice slithers through the cracked window. “No loose ends.”
My pulse kicks up, breathing steady. Trying to keep my cool after the son of a bitch threatens Seriph, I count the exits in myhead. Two visible from this angle, probably another out back near where Bishop’s team should be arriving soon.
“And if Colson shows up?” A local laughs nervously.
Nice to know I scare the fuckwit.
“Then we give him what he came for,” Sokolov replies calmly, followed by the metallic click of a safety being flipped.
I press the earpiece as Jax’s voice filters through. “Thermal shows four hostels inside. Reaper is ten minutes out. You good?”
“Movin’ now.”
“Grim, wait for Reaper. Don’t go in—”
I ignore him, moving around the back of the building into the shadows. No lights, no windows back here. It’s old, wood and stone crumbling together in places, but the door looks newer. I pause with my hand on the knob, testing it cautiously. It’s locked and heavy but not reinforced. If I break it down, it would be too loud. Needing something quieter, I draw a slender set of lockpicks out of my pocket. The thin metal glints faintly in the moonlight as I make short work of the lock. There’s a soft click, then silence. I pause, listening for any sounds from the other side.
The door creaks open enough for me to slip inside. I continue to ignore Jax’s warnings crackling through the earpiece. The air smells stale and dusty with a faint trace of mildew. The floorboards groan faintly as I move down the narrow hallway. Voices grow louder from the main room up ahead. My knife is out now, low at my side as I press my back into the wall. I can see shadows moving under the doorframe. Three figures, maybe four.
Then Sokolov’s voice cuts through again. This time in Russian, he’s on the phone. “No witnesses. The woman and her shop vanish by morning.” He pauses as the person on the other end replies. “Let him watch.”
My blood turns into a blazing inferno, my grip on the knife turns my knuckles white. Bishop’s team isn’t in position yet. A compromise now means risking Seriph. I force myself to relax and slide toward the back right as a floorboard squeaks underfoot. I freeze. The conversation pauses in the other room. Fuck.
Then a local. “Did you hear that?”
I don’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, I whirl and drive the knife hilt deep into the throat of the man who rounds the corner, silencing him before he can call out. He crumples soundlessly, but the thud of his body hitting the wood echoes too loudly.
“Check that,” Sokolov orders.
Boots scuff toward the hallway as I yank the blade free and drag the corpse into a shadowed alcove. I press flat against the wall beside a moth eaten deer head as another armed man steps into view, pistol sweeping blindly. I move, one hand snatching the man’s wrist, twisting until bone cracks and the gun clatters to the floor. My other arm locks around his throat, cutting off any cry as I drag him back into the room where I stashed his comrade. The struggle lasts about four seconds before a sharp twist and a sick crack. His head falls at an odd angle and his body goes limp. I lower him silently then scoop up the fallen pistol.
Jax hisses in my earpiece. “Reaper's ETA three minutes. You got company incoming. Thermal shows two more tangos moving toward your position from the east wall.”
I push the stolen pistol into my waistband and draw my own from its holster, thumbing off the safety with a click. “Tell him to hurry.”
I step over both bodies into the hall and kick the door open. It slams with a thunderous crash, wood splintering. Three heads snap toward me. Sokolov is mid-sip from a crystal glass, his two remaining guards reaching for their weapons. I don’t give them the chance.
I put two rounds center mass into the first guard. The second gets a bullet through the kneecap before he can clear his holster, then another between his eyes when he hits the ground.
“Evenin’, fuckface.”
Sokolov hasn’t moved. Watching with cold eyes, swirling his drink like we’re at a goddamn dinner party. “Ah, Mr. Colson.” His Russian accent thick with mockery. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t—”
I cross the room and smash my pistol across his jaw—glass shatters as blood sprays on the faded wallpaper. I kick his chair over, planting a boot on his throat while pressing the barrel to his forehead. A wet laugh bubbles out of his bleeding mouth.
“He’s stalling! Thermal shows four hostels closing fast on your six!” Jax crackles urgently.
I shift enough weight on his windpipe to make him wheeze. “Tell your men to stand down,” I growl, “or I start carvin’ pieces off of you while they watch.”
He rasps something in Russian too fast for me to catch, but the sudden scramble of boots outside tells me everything I need to know.
“Reaper’s thirty seconds out. Don’t do anything stupid—”
I fire twice through the wall, chest high, pained shouts answer as unseen bodies hit the floor. “Too late,” I mutter.
Sokolov spits a glob of crimson onto my boot and croaks, “She’s going to taste sweet, your little witch.”
I feel my trigger finger twitch, but Seriphina’s face flashes through my mind. Her smile, soft and safe, everything I never let myself have. That split second is all it takes, Sokolov reaches up, grabs the pistol, twisting it away. It fires wildly, ricocheting. Sokolov rolls away, coughing while he scrabbles for the fallen gun. I kick it to the side and it slides across the floor, before driving my knee into Sokolov’s midsection. It connects with asickening crunch. His ribs give way under the force and he chokes on air. Clawing at my thighs for purchase when—.
