Page 15 of Vicious Doll

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Mikhail's hands stop moving entirely, his eyes flicking to Volkov with something I can't quite read—warning, maybe, or concern.

Volkov says after a silence thick enough to choke on. The words fall like stones into still water. "Killion's recruitment. His asset. His responsibility."

The revelation hits like a gut punch. Volkov’s wife had been a doll? The pieces start clicking together—his hatred, the personal vendetta, the shared history dripping with blood and betrayal.

"What happened to her?" I ask, knowing I'm pushing too far but unable to stop. It's my most self-destructive trait—charging headlong into emotional minefields just to see what explodes.

"Same thing that happens to all assets who outlive usefulness," Volkov says, voice flat and empty as a corpse's eyes. "They disappear."

Mikhail stands abruptly, moving to a cabinet where he retrieves a bottle of something darker, stronger than the paint-thinner vodka I've been drinking. He pours three glasses without asking, sliding one to Volkov with a gentleness incongruous with his massive frame.

"To the dead," Mikhail says, raising his glass.

"And to revenge," Volkov adds, knocking back the brown liquid in one practiced motion.

Except, they didn’t know if Vahyna was dead, right? Probably not smart to mention that part.

I drink with them, the liquor burning a path to my stomach where it settles like napalm. The taste lingers—smoke and earth and something metallic that reminds me of blood.

"Enough ghost stories," Volkov says, shaking off memories like a dog shedding water. "We have work. Harlow will be in Vienna tomorrow before heading to Black Sea location. One chance to intercept."

He spreads photographs across the table—surveillance shots of Harlow entering buildings, meeting contacts, living the high life of a traitor with government connections. In each one, he looks exactly like what he is—a man who believes himself untouchable, above consequences, immune to the chaos he creates.

"What’s the plan?" I ask, forcing my mind back to the mission. "Snatch and grab? Public execution? Make it look like an accident?"

"Information first, then death," Volkov says, clinical as a surgeon discussing tumor removal. "Needs to be private. Controlled. We need his network, his contacts."

"His passwords," I add. "Access to whatever the ‘Vahyna Initiative’ is.”

"Da," Mikhail nods, loading a fresh magazine into the reassembled Glock with a satisfying click. "Then pain. Then death."

The casual brutality should shock me. Three months ago, it would have. Now it just feels like professional courtesy—the respect of admitting what we all are.

"I'll need gear," I say, all business now. "Clothes that aren't soaked in someone else's blood. Weapons that can't be traced back to a firefight with American operatives."

"Is provided," Mikhail says, jerking his head toward a duffel bag in the corner. "Women's clothes, your size. Weapons clean. Papers for border."

I rummage through the bag, finding black tactical pants, tops, even underwear in my size. Either they've been watchingme longer than I thought, or they're very good at estimating measurements.

In the three days since holing up in this shitbox, Volkov hadn’t once made a move toward me. My bruises from the last time we fucked were starting to fade. I craved more.

And I was tired of waiting around for a little action.

“Let’s fuck.”

They exchange a glance I can't quite interpret. Mikhail says something in Russian, low and questioning. Volkov replies with a shrug that somehow communicates volumes.

“We’ve got twelve hours to kill before Vienna,” I continue, taking the direct approach that seems to be the only language they fully understand, "we've got twelve hours to kill before Vienna, a shitty safehouse with one bed, and enough tension in this room to power a small city." I drain my glass, setting it down with deliberate precision. "We might as well fuck the edge off before we go hunting."

The silence that follows is nuclear, pressing against my eardrums like I'm deep underwater. Mikhail's expression doesn't change, but his pupils dilate, black eclipsing gray. Volkov watches me with the same clinical interest he'd give a particularly complex explosive device.

"Don't look so shocked," I say, leaning against the table. "You've both seen me naked already. Mikhail when he patched me up, and you," I nod to Volkov, "when you fucked me raw.”

"Is bad idea," Mikhail rumbles, but his eyes say something different, something hungry and primal beneath the professional control.

"Oh please," I snort. "Like either of you gives a shit about workplace ethics. We're plotting an assassination. I don’t think there’s an HR department that covers our profession."

Volkov's lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close enough. "She has point, Mikhail."

---