Page 120 of Lethal Abduction

And you love it just a little too fucking much, don’t you, Dimitry?

I shift uncomfortably, moving the tiller from one hand to the other, trying not to dwell on that thought.

The fact is that these moments are where I’m most at home. Action, violence, outsmarting the opposition; this was how Roman and I won, way back when he first took over the Stevanovsky clan.

Back then, we had a clear division of labor. Roman was the front man. He had a vision, the money to make it happen, and the balls to give hard orders.

I was the sword at his back who worked out how best to execute those orders. How to outsmart the fuckers who got in our way.

I made sure we both survived. No matter who the fuck came at us.

But part of doing that job properly meant that we got the business to a place where my particular skill set became less important. Other people do the clan’s killing now, except for those times when it’s necessary to make a point. And for the most part, that’s a good thing.

Except that if you’re being honest, Dimitry, you’ve been bored shitless for a long time.

Not because I miss the blood and violence, though I have to admit, in measured doses, that kind of workout does have a way of making a man feel alive.

It’s more that I miss war itself. I miss the intrigue.

The exhilaration of discovering an enemy’s weakness and exploiting it. Taking a problem and breaking it down to its parts, then devising a strategy to deal with each, until I’m grinning down at whichever fucker thought they’d outsmart me.

The actual war is almost irrelevant. By the time the enemy is on their knees, I’m already having a vodka and thinking about the next game.

Or at least, I used to be.

The truth is that since Roman launched Mercura, it’s his cyber geeks who fight the wars, deep in their underground bunker.

I know that giving me the responsibility of tracking down the owners of the Naryshkin treasures was Roman’s way of acknowledging my skill set. Of giving me something of my own. And I loved the job, more than I expected to.

But it’s only now, putting down a dark canal with little more than my mind to use as a weapon and in the face of seemingly surmountable odds, that I can admit to myself how much I’ve missed this.

I don’t know what that means for my future. I just know that this feeling is something I need, almost as much as I do Abby at my side.

It’s what I was made for. It’s what I do.

Unfortunately, I have a hunch Abby might not quite see it that way.

“Are we there yet?”

Her sarcastic question brings me back to the present.

“Fire away, Skip.” I go for a lighthearted note. I suspect I’m going to need a lot of humor to get through this particular conversation.

“Fancy sharing what, exactly, you plan to do with this Fabergé egg you’ve magicked up?”

“Straight to the point, huh, Skip?” I find myself smiling, despite the audible edge to her voice. “Let me put it this way. The egg is a trojan horse, of sorts. I’m going to use it to go straight into the belly of the beast.”

The ensuing silence speaks volumes. I can sense the fury and tension radiating from the still figure beneath the canvas.

“If you’re going to talk about Greek mythology,” she says finally, “then I’m going to remind you that not only did the Greeks leave the wooden horseoutsidethe gates of Troy, they also had an entire army hidden inside it.”

I grin. I’ve always loved this kind of banter with Abby. Even during our worst arguments, we were only ever one good joke away from a fit of laughter.

Or bed.

Or both at once.

It’s why she’s fucking unforgettable. And why I’m going to fucking win this thing, whether she likes it or not.

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