Page 146 of Fierce Pursuit

I slipped out of the passenger door, taking up a position in the narrow alley beside us with a clear view of the street. The brick wall scraped against my shoulder, rough and damp with evening dew. Mac would stay with the car, ready for a quick exit if needed.

This wasn't just about watching, though. No, tonight was about sending a message.

A new dog in the fight needed to be put down before he had the chance to sink his teeth into any of our operations.

A woman jogged past, her pace steady, music blasting from her earbuds. A baby stroller creaked along the pavement, pushed by a mother juggling coffee and a leash. A puppy bounced happily ahead, sniffing everything in sight.

Normal life. People who had no idea men like me existed, that their peace was a fragile illusion built on bodies buried deep.

A sleek, dark sedan rolled up across the street. No headlights. Tinted windows. The engine's low purr sent vibrations through the concrete beneath my feet.

There.

The driver didn't get out. The car sat idling, the faint glow of a cigarette ember flickering behind the glass, a small red star in the darkness.

"Two men inside," Mac said through my earpiece, the static making my ear itch. "Maybe more, but I don’t have a clear view of the back interior through the windshield."

I didn't nod, didn't react. Just let my breath out slow, my lungs burning with the need for action.

Mac exhaled, his voice tense in my ear. "Your call."

The street remained quiet, tension coiling in my muscles, my body humming with adrenaline.

Then the back passenger door of the sedan opened.

A man stepped out, clicking the door shut and taking up a casual position against a tree. The sedan slowly pulled away, heading around the corner.

Broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit that fit too well for someone who worked for a man like Solovyov. His stance was relaxed, but there was an edge to the way he moved. Controlled. Precise. A man used to violence. The light caught the flash of a signet ring on his right hand. It was gold, ostentatious, a killer playing at sophistication.

Not just any new recruit.

This was their new executioner.

And that meant I was looking at the man who had tried to kill my wife. The attempt had been quick, messy. A drive-by at the restaurant where we'd been celebrating our wedding. The memory of shattering glass and Marina's scream still clawed at my insides. Pure luck had saved her, and I'd been too focused on getting her to safety to pursue him then. But now, with her secure at the compound, I could tie up this loose end.

My fingers twitched, adrenaline surging through me like a shot of pure vodka. The weight of my gun seemed to lighten, becoming an extension of my arm, my anger. This would not be a quiet night.

I wondered if Marina would like a puppy. Or was she more of a cat person? Maybe I'd surprise her with one forour first anniversary—no, not a cat. For her, I'd get a rabbit. A Soviet chinchilla rabbit. Soft, strong, and fast. Just like her. I could almost feel its velvet fur beneath my fingers, the way Marina's skin felt in the darkness.

"Anything yet?" Gregor's voice crackled in my earpiece. Damn that itch. I suppressed the urge to scratch. I hated these fucking comms, the way they buzzed and squirmed like insects in my ear.

"No," I murmured, leaning just enough out of the alley to check the street, the rough brick scraping my cheek.

The new mother with the stroller was further away now, vanishing around the corner, the puppy still sniffing at everything in sight, oblivious to the predators watching from the shadows.

I glanced toward the others.

Gregor and Artem were holed up in a black SUV a half block down. I didn't even want to imagine the dick measuring contest happening in there. God only knew what bullshit they were arguing over, but keeping the peace wasn't my problem. That was Pavel's headache to deal with.

Pavel was coordinating from the command vehicle with Gregor and Artem, monitoring police channels and keeping our exit routes clear. His voice was a steady murmur in the background of our comms, a constant stream of information that grounded us in the chaos.

Damien was stationed in another alley farther down, his silhouette barely visible in the shadows, just the glint of his watch when he moved. He lifted a hand. The silent signal that all was clear.

Mikhail was our eye in the sky, positioned on arooftop across from the target. His rifle scope moved just slightly before his hand went up, flat and vertical. I could picture him up there, breathing slow and steady, his heartbeat probably not even breaking rhythm.

Despite the bite of winter in the air, a single bead of sweat traced a slow path down my spine, cold and insistent. My fingers tightened around my gun, the grip rough against my calluses.

Minutes ticked by. Then, the target stepped out of his front door, the sound of his expensive shoes on pavement unnaturally loud in the silence.

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