“Good. Now aim for the center of mass,” he murmurs, pointing my hands toward the blank concrete wall. “Don’t aim for the head. Aim for the chest. It’s the biggest target. Grip it tight, brace for the recoil, and pull the trigger until the magazine is empty.”
“Until it’s empty,” I repeat, memorizing the weight of the gun in my hands.
“Don’t hesitate, Iris,” he says, his voice dropping into a dark, visceral growl against my ear. “If a man comes at you tonight, don’t warn him. Don’t try to reason with him. Put him in the ground. Do you understand me?”
“I understand.”
He steps back, letting me hold the weapon on my own. I click the safety back up and carefully tuck the gun into the waistband of my pants, resting it at the small of my back where my T-shirt easily conceals it.
He reaches into his vest and presses a sleek metal flash drive into my free hand. "A decoy," he says. "Varro has the real one. Keep it in your pocket. Make him look at it."
He reaches back into the drawer and pulls out a sleek, black combat knife in a Kydex sheath. He kneels down in front of me and clips the sheath securely to the canvas belt at my hip.
He stands back up, looking down at me. I’m fully armed, standing in a concrete bunker, carrying a loaded gun, preparing to orchestrate the execution of my own father.
He reaches out, his right hand gripping my waist, pulling me flush against the hard lines of his chest.
“Tonight, we end it,” Cassian whispers.
“Tonight,” I agree.
He turns his back, grabbing two spare rifle magazines from the table and slamming them into the pouches on his belt.
I wipe my bruised mouth with the back of my hand, turn on my heel, and walk out of the armory, ready for war.
28
CASSIAN
I stare out the tinted window of the heavily armored SUV, watching the Manhattan skyline rise out of the dark river fog as we cross the Queensboro Bridge.
Varro is driving. Iris sits perfectly still in the back.
I check the load on my SIG for the fourth time. Pressing the release, I drop the magazine into my palm, my thumb grazing the cold brass casings of the hollow-point rounds to verify the feed before slapping it back into the grip. The sharp clack echoes loudly in the confined space.
Varro glances at me from the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say anything, but I know what he’s thinking. I’m wound too tight.
My left shoulder throbs, a dull, vicious burn that pulses in sync with my elevated heartbeat. The painkillers I took in the bunker have taken the sharpest edge off, reducing the blinding agony to a manageable ache, but the torn muscle is stiff. My mobility on that side is severely compromised. In a close-quarters knife fight, a delay of a fraction of a second could cost me my life.
But I have no intention of letting anyone get close enough to her to use a knife tonight.
“Two minutes to the drop,” Varro says, breaking the silence.
I turn around in my seat and look into the back.
Iris is staring out the tinted window, the sharp lines of her face intermittently illuminated by the passing amber glow of the streetlights.
“How is your heart rate?” I ask her.
Her eyes meet mine in the shadows of the backseat.
“Steady,” she says.
“Keep it that way,” I tell her. “When he walks into that room, he’s going to actively look for the frightened, broken girl who left that voicemail. He’s going to look for weakness. If he sees the cold woman sitting in this car right now, his guard goes up immediately. Play the victim, Iris. Sell the terror.”
“I know how to act for him,” she says flatly, the lack of emotion in her voice stark in the quiet car. “I’ve had twenty-four years of rehearsal.”
Varro kills the headlights as we turn sharply off the main avenue, rolling onto the narrow, hidden service street running behind the Waldorf Museum. We navigate the alleyway in total darkness, guided only by the ambient, glowing smog of the city above us.
