And that is the last mistake he gets to make.
I shoot him in the leg.
His howl splits the night. He drops hard, knife skidding across the road. I’m on him in two strides, gun under his chin before he can even think about crawling.
“Who sent you?”
Blood slicks his mouth when he laughs.
Wrong answer.
I press harder. “Try again.”
His eyes flick to the sedan. To the road. Calculating. Looking for escape.
There isn’t one.
Then I feel Zatanna behind me—too close, shaking hard, trying not to make a sound.
I don’t need her seeing the next part.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her.
There’s a tiny pause.
Then, very quietly, “Aleksei…”
“Now.”
I hear her breath hitch.
The man beneath me smirks. “You should’ve let her come with us. She’d fetch a good?—”
I hit him with the gun hard enough to split skin and silence him. Rage burns white behind my ribs. Hot. Clean. Ancient.
No one touches what’s mine.
No one.
He spits blood and finally says, “We were told to bring the girl. That’s all.”
The girl.
My hand tightens on the gun. “By who?”
He shakes his head. I almost break his jaw for it.
But I stop myself. Instead, I stand and call a number without taking my eyes off him.
Sergei answers on the first ring.
“I need cleanup,” I say. “Now. Stone & Vale, north service road. Three men. One alive.”
A pause. Then, “On my way.”
I end the call and finally turn.
Zatanna is standing a few feet away, pale as winter, one hand gripping her own elbow so tightly her knuckles are white. Her eyes are huge. Wet.
