You have no idea how slowly I'm going to kill you.
Another laugh. Calder's this time.
"She understands her place. That's what matters."
"If only they could all be trained so well." Dashkov's hand disappears beneath the table.
I see the exact moment Keira registers where this is going.
Her spine goes rigid. Her breath catches. And then…nothing. She empties out behind her eyes like water draining from a sink.
He's touching her.
Right there at the table, and Calder isn't going to do anything about it. She has no choice but to sit there and take it.
I black out.
Just long enough to feel myself shift forward, fingers uncurling from behind my back, reaching for the knife I know is strapped to my thigh?—
Stop.
I force myself to remain still. Draw air into my lungs in measured pulls, even though it feels like death.
I can't. Not here. Not now.
I'm outnumbered, and if I do anything right now, I might be able to get a few bullets into these assholes, but it would leave Keira and Hale completely alone.
Keira's eyes flick to mine.
Just for a heartbeat, but I catch the plea buried beneath all that careful emptiness.
Calder turns then, and Dashkov withdraws his hand, casual as adjusting a napkin.
Keira exhales.
My blood turns to accelerant.
When Calder waves for the staff to clear the plates, I slip out the side door before I incinerate what's left of my control.
THIRTY-SIX
TRISTAN
The courtyard is dark.
Four black cars line up beneath the security lights.
Drivers cluster near the service entrance, smoking and laughing, oblivious as I cut through the shadows behind them.
I head for Dashkov's Bentley first.
His driver is slumped in the front seat, mouth hanging open, reeking of vodka. The door opens without a sound. I plant the tracker beneath the dashboard. Photograph his face. His ID badge. The paperwork in the glove box listing an address in Monaco. Every scrap of intel that might prove useful when this is over.
Three more cars get the same treatment.
Trackers planted. Documents photographed. A mental file started for each man sitting in that dining room, gorging themselves on wagyu while discussing which borders are easiest for smuggling children.
Mendoza. Becker. Marchetti.
