Monty’s breath grows shallow beside me, his body frozen like mine, as we watch a man we all feared become something else entirely.
“You want her alive?”The man pockets the phone.“Then come quietly.”
Jag lowers his head, his jaw flexing like he’s swallowing a sob.His whole posture slumps.Not in surrender.In devastation.
One of the attackers comes out of the break room with Jag’s duffel bag.Another one enters the shop, wiping a bloody knife on his pants.
“Side alley’s clear.”The newcomer sheathes the blade.“Took down the shop employee.Dumped the body.We’re done here.Move out.”
Declan’s killer.
Jag stays on his knees, silent and crushed.
His last act wasn’t escape.
It was sacrifice.
I don’t have faith.I have family, and my family doesn’t solve problems politely.
Jag and Dove aren’t coming back through warrants, missing-persons flyers, badges, or agencies.They’ll be found the Strakh way, by breaking laws, spilling blood, and destroying everyone and everything in our path.
Perks of being born into the Russian mob.
The instant we watch Jag sacrifice himself on the camera feed, Monty makes the call.
The Ghost lives alone in the cabin we gave him in Hoss, the one soaked in ruined childhoods.Yeah.That one.We would burn it to the ground before ever choosing to live there again.
But for a retired Russian executioner?It’s prime real estate.A secluded place to rot on his terms and be left alone.
No one outside our inner circle knows that cabin exists.
When Monty makes the call, he doesn’t beg.Doesn’t explain.He doesn’t need to.Twenty-four hours later, a helicopter thunders in, rotors chopping the night apart.It lands on the island’s helicopter pad, lights cutting through the dark.
I stand outside as it arrives, barely holding myself together.I haven’t slept right in days.Every time I close my eyes, my brain fills in what might be happening to Jag and Dove.
Stress has been riding shotgun so long it’s part of my spine now.I’m running on fumes and fury, hollowed out and overcharged.One wrong breath will either knock me flat or send me straight through a wall.
I just need to keep it together a little longer.
Monty hovers beside me as the helicopter door slides open.
The Ghost steps out first.
Oliver Popov looks exactly as I remember him, his eyes dead-calm, and his coat tailored for a five-star dinner rather than murder.No hurry in his gait.No nerves.Just that same controlled stillness he exuded the night I met him in Hoss.The night we butchered the doctor.
Then a second man exits the helicopter.
He looks like he belongs in the background.Lean build, early thirties, shaved sides with dark hair on top.Plain black hoodie.Plain boots.No jewelry.No phone in his hands.
His eyes never stop moving.Not darting.More like counting exits, cameras, and heartbeats at the same time.
“This is Mikhail.Not his real name.Don’t ask for it.”Oliver meets my gaze.
I know that look.It says ethical lines will be erased and worse men than him will bleed before this is over.
Which is why Theo, Ross, and the rest of Monty’s security team aren’t here.Oliver only trusts his mobsters.
Like Mikhail.Best criminal hacker in the world, according to Oliver.I have my doubts.No one is better than Jag, according to Dove.
