“Clear,” came the whisper.
Holt reached the second floor, his weapon drawn as he approached the northeast corner. Through a gap in the wall, he could see them. Three men were around a table covered with papers and photographs. Money was changing hands, and plans were being made for operations that would destroy more families and claim more innocent lives.
And there, at the head of the table, was the face that had haunted Holt’s nightmares for decades. Marcus Volkov looked older than his seventy years; his hair was white, and his face was marked by a lifetime of violence. But his eyes were the same cold gray that witnesses had described all those years ago.
“FBI! Nobody move!” Holt burst through the door, his weapon trained on Volkov’s chest.
The other two men dove for cover, hands reaching for guns that Holt’s team intercepted with precise movements. But Volkov just sat there, those gray eyes fixed on Holt with something that might have been amusement.
“Agent Dillinger,” Volkov said, his voice carrying the faint accent that had never quite faded. “I wondered when you would find me.”
“You wondered?” Holt kept his weapon steady, though his heart was pounding like a war drum. “You’ve been expecting this?”
“I’ve been expecting you.” Volkov leaned back in his chair, casual as if they were discussing the weather. “Ever since that night in Miami when your father stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.”
The words hit Holt like a physical blow. Forty-six years of wondering, of piecing together fragments of truth, and now the answer was sitting across from him, wearing a smile.
“He saw the shipment,” Holt said, understanding flooding through him. “The drugs that were coming through the construction site he was working on.”
“So you’ve finally put the pieces together. Your father should’ve just taken the bribe to keep his mouth shut.” Volkov’s smile was as cold as winter. “If he couldn’t have minded his own business or taken the bribe, he should’ve just kept his mouth shut, but no, your father’s moral compass got him killed.”
“He was building a school,” Holt said, his voice tight with controlled rage. “You killed him for building a place where children could learn.”
“I killed him because he threatened my operation. Nothing personal.” Volkov shrugged.
The casual dismissal of his father’s life, the reduction of Richard Dillinger’s murder to a business decision, sent something primal surging through Holt’s chest. For a moment, the careful control he’d spent decades building wavered.
“On your knees,” Holt commanded. “Hands behind your head.”
Volkov laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “You think this ends with handcuffs? You think your father’s death means anything after all these years?”
“It means everything,” Holt said.
That’s when Volkov moved.
For a man in his seventies, he was fast. His hand appeared from under the table, holding a pistol, the muzzle swinging toward Holt’s chest. Training took over, muscle memory from thousands of hours on the range, and Holt’s finger squeezed the trigger.
But Volkov had been killing people since before Holt was born.
The first bullet was a burning line across Holt’s temple, close enough to draw blood and fill his vision with stars. The second punched into his chest like a sledgehammer, stealing his breath and sending him stumbling backward. His body armor saved his life, slowing down the bullet, but it still pierced it, and the impact felt like being kicked by a horse.
Holt’s return shot took Volkov center mass, the older man’s eyes widening in surprise as he toppled backward in his chair. But even dying, Volkov had one more bullet to give.
The third shot caught Holt in the thigh, spinning him around and sending him crashing toward the floor. His head connected with the edge of a metal desk, and the world exploded in white light and ringing silence.
Holt lay on his back, staring up at the flickering fluorescent lights as warmth spread through his leg and chest. He could hear his team moving, voices shouting through the comm, but everything sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
“Boss! Boss, stay with me!” Agent Martinez’s face appeared in his field of vision, hands pressing against the wound in his leg. “We got him. Volkov’s down. You did it. boss.”
Holt tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick and clumsy. The warehouse ceiling seemed to be spinning, and he couldn’t quite remember why he was lying on the floor.
“Hold on, Boss,” Martinez said, his voice urgent. “We got him, so you’d better hold on there.”
As consciousness faded, Holt’s last clear thought was of his father’s face. After forty-six years, Richard Dillinger could finally rest in peace.
Justice had been served.
3
