Page 1 of Every Last Breath

Chapter 01

London, England

Wednesday, 2:01 a.m. EDT, 7:01 a.m. BST

No need to waste a bullet.

Vivaldi’s Stabat Mater filled Aleksander’s ears, the violins and countertenor’s falsetto dampening the muffled cries of the woman bound and gagged behind him. He didn’t want her life, just the use of her third-floor bedroom. Then he and his son, Valmir, would be on their way.

A wisp of a cool breeze rustled the ivory lace curtains, taunting him from the three-inch hole he’d cut in the window. Seated with his legs on either side of the tripod, he stretched his neck, letting the joints pop. He tucked the butt of the high-powered AX50 rifle into the pocket of his shoulder, pressed his cheek to the stock, and adjusted the scope for a proper zero.

Sweat gathered on his brow, sliding down his temple in a sticky trickle as he waited. Three more minutes passed like a painful thirty. He gnashed his molars, fingers itchy.

Putting a slug in a man’s skull was never easy, but every profession had its challenges. He’d learned long ago, the same way he’d taught Val, to push through. To distill the unpleasantness of necessary things. The work became normal. Pushing and distilling a habit.

But this wasn’t a job. This time, the endgame was personal.

Aleksander sighted through the scope, his focus fixed and every sense alive. His position was ideal and the line of sight golden. Come on, he silently urged, though his quarry adhered to a strict schedule. Two bodyguards left the upscale town house across the quaint road. One stood beside the doorway. The other went down the steps to the curb, where a chauffeured car arrived at 7:15 on the button.

The detailed dossiers Aleksander had purchased from the information broker had been worth the exorbitant cost. He’d waited, planned, saved, made the right connections, seething for seventeen years—an eternity that could drive a man insane. Very soon, he’d have what he yearned for most in the world, the reason he’d sold his soul to the devil. Ah, yes. They would pay.

He controlled his breathing, slowed his pulse.

The front door opened again. Twenty seconds. That’s all he’d have for a clear shot—and all he’d need. He licked his lips in anticipation and thumbed the safety off his rifle as Val came up beside him.

Blackburn emerged in the doorway across the street. A cold resolve settled over Aleksander at the sight of his target.

One. Two. With his finger on the trigger, he drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. Six. Seven. He lined up the crosshairs, lasered red dot on the center of the forehead. Eleven. Twelve.

A smooth squeeze of the hair trigger and stout recoil. The .50-caliber hollow-point round spat from the end of the suppressor, swallowing any sound. The back of Blackburn’s head burst in a spray of pink mist as he pitched backward and dropped onto the sidewalk like a sack of potatoes.

One down.

Relief hummed through him. It had begun. Finally.

Val gave Aleksander’s shoulder a little squeeze. Yes, they’d see this through until the end—together. No matter what it took.

Aleksander removed his earbuds and packed the AX50 with quick, mindless efficiency—muscle memory gained from many years of practice.

“The chartered plane is ready and waiting at Heathrow.”

“Excellent,” Aleksander said, thirsting for the next step. Hell-bent on reaping revenge.

Chapter 02

Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia

12:30 p.m. EDT

Digging deep—beyond guts and the sublimation of physical pain—to survive a Gray Box mission was tricky enough. Doing so unscathed was impossible.

Maddox Kinkade hung her towel in her locker and threw on her underwear and bra, gritting her teeth.

Fucking up wasn’t her style. She was a go-getter, had an unblemished record—until now, with the covert op in Iran that’d spiraled from dicey to hell in a handbasket.

A hot shower had done little good, but her aching muscles screamed thanks after a quick rub with liniment. As she shoved into her jeans, relishing the soothing tingle and scent of menthol, there was a knock on the women’s locker room door. “Yeah?” she called out.

The door swung open. Gideon “Reaper” Stone, her best friend and wet work specialist—fancy term for CIA-bred assassin—met her eyes. His ice-blue gaze didn’t veer for a second to her exposed cleavage or the right side of her torso, which resembled battered meatloaf.