Page 4 of Every Last Breath

Cole wasn’t superstitious, but he had an uncanny ability to scent trouble on the horizon. He sensed it in the atlas, the topmost vertebra between the skull and spine, like an arthritic joint sensed rain in the wind.

Right now, he had a hairline tingle in the back of his head, juicing up, sparking. He slammed his helmet visor closed and rode down the paved walking path, too narrow for a car to follow. After a quarter mile, the footpath opened into the mouth of a public library parking lot. He hit MacArthur Boulevard, navigating the grind of traffic aggressively, until crossing onto M Street.

The dry-cleaning run—a counter-surveillance tactic to shake any ticks—to his Georgetown destination took a vexing, overheated hour.

No sign of the tail, but there was no reason for anyone to follow him. Not after years of exercising painstaking care, cutting every warm-blooded link to his past, and living like vapor.

He nabbed a spot in front of his favorite café. It served authentic Russian cuisine and wasn’t frequented by anyone in the Bratva, the Red Mafia. He pulled off his helmet and jacket, surveying the area. Smoothing his long hair behind his right ear, letting the left side screen the scar on his face, he tugged his tee down over the Browning blade sheathed and hooked to his waistband. The weight of the Ka-Bar knife strapped to his ankle was an added comfort.

His gaze snagged on a white SUV parked down the block, on the other side of the street.

It was possible multiple teams were on him and one had leapfrogged. But that would mean he’d been surveilled for several days without noticing.

He never took the same route or came and went at the same times of day. Anything to avoid establishing a pattern. But Rubicon headquarters, his town house that he’d turned into a veritable fortress, and this café that reminded him of his mother’s cooking were predictable places in his routine.

A sixtyish woman carrying shopping bags dashed across the street, a key fob in her hand. The headlights of the white SUV flashed. She hopped in and pulled off.

He let out a breath. Stop overreacting. Take a chill pill.

But the persistent electric niggle at the nape of his neck refused to ebb.

He dug in his pocket, grabbed a cable looped at the ends, and ran it through his jacket’s sleeves and a clip on the helmet, securing his gear to the bike with a U-lock. Then he strode into the cozy café, cosseted by the familiar smells of cooked cabbage and warm spices.

The blond waitress, Anya, greeted him with an eager smile. He glimpsed Olga, the brunette, disappearing into the kitchen without giving him her usual wave. He looked over the handful of patrons. No one stood out.

The hole-in-the-wall joint had ten tables and a second egress point through the kitchen into an alley. He sat with his six to the wall, giving him sight lines of the entrance and hall to the kitchen.

Anya sashayed to his table, throwing too much sway in her hips, nibbling her pink lip. She twirled a loose strand of blond hair around a delicate finger. “Summer borscht today?”

The thick beet soup, served cold in the warmer months, was the closest he’d found to his mother’s recipe. The ultimate comfort food. He could taste the tangy sweetness on his tongue, and with the memory, others surfaced—but he didn’t want to think about his family, of everything he’d lost and the blood he’d shed.

And he certainly didn’t want to think about the woman who’d taken a wrecking ball to his life and left his soul bleeding.

A knot bunched in his chest. “No borscht today. Any specials?”

“Beef Stroganoff.”

His mouth would’ve watered if it hadn’t been dry as sand. “Sounds perfect for my first day of vacation.”

“Mr. Workaholic on vacation?”

He mustered a shallow grin, sweeping his gaze over the door and street. “I find it hard to believe too.”

“Tomorrow, how about you come to my place for a homecooked dinner?” Anya blushed, her moss-green eyes gleaming. “I’ll serve anything you want.” She pressed her voluptuous hip against the table and tapped a pencil on the plump swell of her breast.

He took in her inviting smile and soft curves.

If only he was interested in curling up with her rather than a bowl of borscht. But he’d learned through trial-by-fucking that casual sex had a way of making the emptiness more acute. He wanted a woman who set him on fire, warmed his heart and burned on his mind, without torching his world to ashes.

“Very generous offer, but I have to pass.” His gaze fell to his hands, so like his father’s had been. Rough, callused, bloodstained. The hands of a killer. “I’m going to be busy.” Doing laundry. Working out. Dodging imaginary tails. Trying not to go bananas. Vacation-palooza.

“A big, strong hottie like you still has to eat.”

Nice of her to think him attractive considering his hideous scar.

With a nervous giggle, she jotted something on her pad and set the sheet on the table. “If you change your mind, call me. No reason to eat alone while on vacation.” She strutted off.

He glimpsed her wiggling ass and swung his focus to the door and street.