Mason makes the call not to shut it down, deciding that it is business as usual in the front while we deal with what almosthappened in the back. If whoever did this is watching, they do not get the satisfaction of seeing us flinch or scramble.
I take a long drag and let the smoke fill my lungs, welcoming the familiar bite as it settles in my chest. Blade shifts closer to me, his gaze cutting toward the street like he expects something to come barreling around the corner at any second.
“You think it’s tied to her.”
It is not a question. It is a statement.
“Everything’s tied to her right now,” I mutter, because that is the truth whether I like it or not.
Rev exhales slowly, his breath curling into the night air. “Volkov had reach.”
“He had reach,” I agree evenly. “Had.”
That is the problem.
We ended him clean, and we made sure it was public enough that the message should have stuck. Anyone paying attention should have understood exactly what happens when you come for us. So either someone did not get it, or someone simply does not care.
My jaw tightens as headlights sweep past the mouth of the alley before disappearing into the dark. My mind runs through the possibilities again, methodical and relentless. Old deals. Old enemies. The Russians we pushed out last year. The infiltration. The drug push in Jackson.
This feels different.
It feels targeted. It feels precise. They followed me when I left Perdition and waited until I was alone before making their move.
There is nothing random about that.
And if this is about Anya, then it changes everything.
My chest tightens at the thought. She is not a bargaining chip. She is not leverage. She is not getting dragged back into that world because some asshole wants to test our boundaries or see how far he can push.
I flick ash onto the pavement and grind my teeth.
“They want to make a statement,” Switch says quietly, his voice steady but edged with something darker.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“They picked the wrong motherfucker.”
A low, humorless chuckle moves through the group, the sound carrying more promise than amusement.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and every muscle in my body locks tight. For a split second, I think it might be her. I pull it out quickly, my pulse kicking hard.
It is not her.
It is information instead. A partial plate. A vehicle description. A possible direction of travel.
I glance toward the front of the building without meaning to. She doesn’t belong anywhere near this. And yet, the image of her in that warehouse, chained to concrete and still looking at me like she refused to break, slides into my head. If this isbecause of her, then they just made the biggest mistake of their lives. Because I didn’t hesitate then and I won’t hesitate now.
Blade is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the entrance like he is waiting for the same SUV to come back and try again. Ghost has been pacing a slow line near my bike, but he is not really pacing. He is measuring distance. Tank is muttering under his breath about my bike like that’s the real tragedy here, and I would normally tell him to shut up, but there is something grounding about the fact that he cares enough to be pissed.
Headlights swing into the lot. A black SUV pulls up and then another behind it.
I don’t have to ask who that is, because there is a particular way those vehicles move, controlled and confident like the road belongs to them.
The first SUV isn’t even fully stopped when the passenger door flies open.
Anya jumps out before the vehicle settles, heels hitting pavement hard enough that one of Viktor’s men swears under his breath and reaches toward her on instinct, but she shrugs him off without breaking stride. She crosses the lot straight toward me like nothing else exists, and for a split second the whole place shifts around her, because even my guys react to her movement. Mason steps half a pace forward and then stops himself, because he is not blocking her. Ghost stops pacing. Blade straightens. Tank goes quiet.
The second SUV door opens, and Dmitri steps out first, because of course he does, and then Mikhail follows, calmer in his movements but just as alert, and then Viktor Dragunov stepsout last like he is not in a hurry because the world waits for him anyway. The man’s posture is controlled, strategic, and he looks like he is already calculating ten moves ahead, which means he is not focused on my blood. He is focused on what it means.
