Page 147 of Fierce Pursuit

A senator. The one heading the Senate Narcotics Caucus. The one working with Gregor. The one targeted by Solovyov to discredit the Ivanovs and start a war. The scent of his expensive cologne reached me even from this distance, sandalwood and arrogance.

He was distracted, phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, a manila folder in one hand, his briefcase hanging open in the other.

His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, the look of a man in over his head. He had no fucking idea his life was hanging by a thread.

Solovyov’s new enforcer reached into his suit jacket to pull a gun from his holster. He then reached into his pocket to screw on a silencer.

"Mikhail?" I muttered, my voice a rough whisper.

"Got it," came the calm reply, ice in his tone.

A split second later, the enforcer’s body jerked before he fell in a heap behind a bush.

Mikhail said coolly, "Shooter neutralized."

Jesus. I hadn't even heard the shot. Just the stillnessafter, that perfect moment of death before the world realized what had happened.

The senator kept walking, still shouting into his phone, still reading his papers, completely oblivious to how close he had come to death. The guardian angel he didn't know he had. Gregor would enlighten him later when he needed leverage over the crooked politician.

A job done clean. Fast. Efficient.

I had missed this. The certainty. The precision. The control. The rush that flooded my veins, better than any drug.

We held position until the senator drove off, then waited another few beats.

No alarms. No innocent witnesses. No trace.

I let out a slow breath, watching it fog in the cold air.

Time to go.

"All clear," Damien said into the comm, his voice rough with the aftermath of adrenaline.

We moved in, our footsteps synchronized by years of working together, the sound barely a whisper on the pavement.

Gregor and Artem took their time joining us, both wearing grim expressions.

Artem's jaw was clenched tight, an expression I'd only ever seen after he spoke with our father. The devil rest his soul. The muscle in his cheek jumped with each heartbeat, a living metronome of his rage.

Pavel and I shared a glance.

We both knew what was coming. Artem was going to lose his shit later. No escaping it. The fury burning behindhis eyes was barely contained, like watching a volcano moments before eruption.

Mac remained in our vehicle, engine running, eyes scanning for any unexpected company while we assessed the scene. His silhouette was just visible through the windshield, a constant reminder of our escape route.

But first, we had to deal with the matter at hand.

The body sprawled behind the bushes, limbs akimbo like a discarded doll, blood pooling beneath him in a sticky, spreading puddle.

The assassin was lying on his stomach, his gun still clutched in one hand, fingers frozen in their death grip. I carefully removed the weapon and set it aside before Damien reached in and rolled him over. The body moved with the unnatural rigidity of fresh death, the sound wet and obscene.

A neat bullet hole sat between the man's eyes, a perfect dark circle punched through flesh and bone. Mikhail's work.

"Damn good shot," Pavel muttered, his breath visible in the cold air.

The man's face was intact. That was a small mercy, identifying him would be easier this way. His eyes stared upward, already glazing over, pupils blown wide in that last moment of surprise.

"Do any of you know him?" Gregor asked, voice level but firm, filling the space between us.

---