“Her,” I say.
Vaska nods once. No judgment. No surprise. Just truth.
Gabriel ends his call and looks at me across the room. “My men are in position.”
I chamber a round. “Then let’s see if yours die useful.”
***
The first shot comes from the ridge east of the yard.
One of mine.
An Armenian by the outer fence drops before the crack fully dies.
Then another.
Then another.
My snipers.
Clean. Fast. Measured.
Gabriel’s men roll up out front right on cue, two vehicles and a truck, making noise where I need noise made. Shouting. Doors slamming. One of them waving his hands like this is just another pissed-off exchange gone sideways.
It buys us seconds. Seconds are enough.
We come in from the back. Fence already clipped.
Boots hitting gravel.
Vaska to my right. Angelo to my left. Ivan and Dimitri peeling off with their teams exactly where they’re supposed to. Gunfire starts up near the front, louder now, messy on purpose. Armenians rush toward the distraction.
Good.
Run the wrong way.
Run toward the lie.
I clear the first building and find nothing but crates and old machine parts.
Second, same.
Third—two men inside. Both dead before they finish turning.
Not her.
My pulse pounds harder.
Container. Locked.
Shot off. Empty.
Next one. Empty.
Next. Fucking empty.
Something dangerous starts clawing up my throat.
