Page 148 of Fierce Pursuit

We all took a moment to study the corpse, the slack features that would never move again.

Russian. That much was clear from the tattoos inkedacross his neck, the familiar patterns of prison ink telling stories of crimes committed, blood spilled. But his face?

No recognition.

The others answered with simple shakes of their heads, the silence punctuated only by the soft hiss of our breath in the cold.

Damien crouched, patting the body down for anything useful, his gloved hands methodical in their invasion. He didn't find much. No ID, no phone, no wallet. Nothing but a few rounds of extra ammunition and a combat knife, its edge gleaming wickedly even in the dim light.

"That's professional," he said. "No paper trail." The respect in his voice was unmistakable.

I wasn't surprised. No serious assassin carried ID. If they got caught—or killed—it kept the heat off their families. Off the people they worked for. It was the same reason I never carried anything personal on a job. Nothing that could lead back to Marina.

"Well," Artem said, as he stepped closer, his expensive shoes inches from the spreading blood. He was pushing for control again.

Technically, he was out of line. This was Gregor's territory. His call. But Artem didn't see it that way. Never had.

"We know he worked for Solovyov," he continued, his voice carrying the sharp edge of authority. "Do we want him to know we took out another one of his men? Or let him wonder?"

Gregor exhaled, considering, his breath creating a momentary ghost between them. Then he shrugged. "He'll figure it out eventually. I say we send back the tattoos. Anice message for our old friend." The casual brutality in his words made the air feel colder.

Artem's eyes flashed, sharp as shattered glass. "No."

Pavel and I exchanged another glance, tension crackling between us. Here we go. The familiar dance beginning again.

Artem wasn't objecting because he had a better idea. He was objecting because he and Gregor were locked in a constant, unspoken power struggle, a tug of war that would only end when one of them was buried.

"I say we cover this up," Artem continued, each word like a bullet finding its mark. "Let Solovyov sweat. Let him wonder if his man ran scared, if he was captured, if he's dead. See how he reacts." His smile was all teeth, a predator's grin.

Gregor pressed his lips together, weighing the words, his fingertips drumming once against his thigh, the only tell he ever allowed himself.

For a moment, I thought he'd argue. But then to my surprise, he nodded.

"Agreed." He tilted his head slightly, the moonlight catching the silver at his temples. "You go back to Russia. Keep an eye on Solovyov. I'll handle things here. I want eyes on the senator and a few other key government officials."

Artem didn't like that. I could see it in the tightening of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched for a weapon that wasn't in his hand.

His stare was hard, sharp as a blade, and Gregor met it evenly, unblinking.

A silent game of chess. Someone was going to make awrong move at some point, and when that happened, several pieces would be sacrificed. Blood would flow, and it wouldn't be the quick, clean death of our enemies.

This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

"So, I'll call the cleanup crew," Damien said, his voice cutting through the thick tension hanging between Gregor and Artem.

"Do that," Artem responded, his tone even, but the weight of his words unmistakable, heavy with promise. "My brothers and I will deal with Solovyov. Once our enemy is gone, we'll take a hard look at the leadership and structure of the family."

A thinly veiled threat, delivered with all the subtlety of a grenade.

To Gregor's credit, he didn't take the bait. He never did. His control was legendary. I'd seen him negotiate million-dollar deals with a bullet in his shoulder, never once betraying the pain.

That was the thing about Gregor—calm, composed, never reacting in anger like Damien. No, Gregor wielded his fury with surgical precision, saving it for when it would cut the deepest. He was the scalpel to Artem's hammer.

Artem knew exactly who he was provoking. The devil dancing with a saint.

And yet, he still did it.

The coming months would be…interesting. If we all survived them.

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