Why didn't she kill me? Why let me live? Does it mean something?
I drain my drink and set the glass down. This line of thinking is unproductive.
She threatened my family and thinks a single stab wound and a cryptic warning are enough to make us back down.
She's a Volkov asset, which means she's an enemy, which means I have to find her.
She caught me off guard once. It won't happen again. Next time we meet, she'll understand exactly who she's dealing with. She'll see that her little knife trick was a one-time mistake, a lucky shot that she will not get to repeat. And I'm going to make sure she regrets not finishing what she started.
But now, I need to focus, because I have a mission to do first.
I cough and my side aches, a shooting pain. I close my eyes and force myself to breathe through it slowly.
Three days. Bogdan first for what he did to Elena, to Adrian, to my unborn niece or nephew.
Then the Russian.
And when I find her, she's going to regret not finishing the job.
2
DANIKA
The hotel room smells like stale cigarettes and cheap lemon cleaner. The walls are beige, the bedspread is worn, and the carpet has stains I refuse to examine too closely.
And to top it all off, this salad is shit. I told myself not to get it, but when I was tasked with this assignment, I didn't have much time to catch my flight, and then, making my way here, I was hungry.
So now, I'm stabbing at wilted pieces of lettuce and tasting bitter olive oil that I'm sure is borderline bad.
It's all part of the job, though.
This place sits just outside the main area of town, where the workers and transients live, far from the tourist-filled center.
I set my fork down on the small table and reach for my phone, unlocking it with a swipe. The screen glows with his face. A loose end, apparently.
That's all Ivan told me. "Clean it up, Danika."
I don't ask why. I never ask why. Ivan doesn't give orders lightly, and if he thinks this person is a problem, then they're a problem. My job isn't to find out why. It's to make people disappear quietly, without leaving a trail that leads back to the Volkov Bratva.
It's simple, and I like simple.
I pick up my fork again and stab another piece of lettuce. This time I get lucky and get another mealy tomato and a piece of feta cheese that I already know tastes like rubber.
I chew anyway, forcing myself to eat because skipping meals is a rookie mistake. Hunger dulls reflexes, slows reaction time, and I can't afford either.
My gun sits on the table beside my phone, the suppressor already attached. Always within arm's reach, exactly where it should be.
Even in yoga pants and a loose T-shirt, I'm never unarmed. Even scarfing down a quick bite in a shitty hotel room, I'm never off the clock.
I glance around the room again, noting the two windows. I'm on the third floor, but that doesn't mean I haven't checked them three times already. Old habits.
I take another bite and unlock my phone again, scrolling through the intel. I've got the predictable schedule. The address. What time he'll be home and where exactly I am going to strike.
I zoom in on the satellite image of the location. Three entry points. No guards, so it's easy. Also, there's minimal lighting on the street where they live, so it's a gift.
This should take less than an hour.
I set the phone down again and lean back in the chair, cracking my neck. My muscles are tight, the tension coiled in my neck and upper back like normal before a hit.
