I’m Anton Malikov. The Reaper. I’ve killed forty-three people with my bare hands and slept like a baby afterward. I don’t cook pasta for traumatized bank tellers. I don’t save random women from rape attempts. And I sure as hell don’t let them run into traffic when there’s a bounty on their head.
But here I am. Acting like some lovesick teenager instead of a professional killer.
My eyes drift to the couch. To her purse.
The ugly brown leather bag she was clutching like a lifeline, even when she was unconscious. Still sitting there on the floor where I left it.
I walk over, pick it up. Heavier than it looks.
I shouldn’t go through it. It’s an invasion of privacy, and despite what she thinks, I’m not a complete animal.
I open it anyway.
Because she’s about to get herself killed, and I need to know how much damage she can do first.
Jesus Christ.
It’s like a roadmap for every assassin in Vegas.
Her wallet: driver’s license with her home address, work ID for Brightside National, credit cards, insurance cards. Her phone: contacts labeled “Grandma Home” and “Grandma Cell,” photos of a yellow house with a ceramic gnome. A ring of keys: apartment, mailbox, what looks like a house key.
Lip balm. Mints. A packet of tissues. A tampon that’s seen better days. A pen that’s chewed to hell. A crumpled receipt from some coffee place.
And folded papers. Crisp, white, like she printed them recently.
I unfold them.
Bingo.
Account statements. Transaction records. Names and numbers and offshore routing codes that make my pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.
W.R. Holdings. Petrov Enterprises. Kozlov Industries.
But there’s more. Companies I don’t recognize. Shell corporations with addresses in the Caymans, Switzerland, Cyprus. Transaction amounts in the millions, not thousands.
This isn’t just Viktor’s operation.
This is a network.
A fucking empire of dirty money, and somehow this little bank clerk stumbled into the mother lode.
I scan the names again. Cross-reference them with what Boris sent me.
Holy shit.
Three of these companies tie back to Timofey Volkov, Igor’s nephew, the one who runs East Coast operations. The one who’s been sniffing around Vegas for months, looking for an excuse to expand territory.
And here it is.
Viktor wasn’t just skimming from Igor. He was feeding information to Timofey Volkov, helping him build a parallel laundering operation right under Igor’s nose.
A coup.
And Mary has the proof.
I set the papers down, stare at them.
She’s more than a witness. She’s a fucking goldmine.
