Page 162 of Lethal Abduction

“They brought Leon in” comes a new voice. “Along with Juan Cardeñas—and us.”

I turn slowly, not certain I’m hearing right until I actually see Pete Chalmers standing there in the flesh. With him, of all the unlikely fuckers in the world, is Turbo, Luke’s bikie friend from Australia.

“What theactualfuck,” I say again.

“We’ll explain later.” Pete’s voice is terse. He nods at double wooden doors to our left. “Abby’s in there. Your mate Leon, too. Don’t shoot him. He’s on our side.”

Roman turns and begins shooting at a new pack of guards chasing us. I pick off two of them and look at Zinaida’s team. “Can you hold these fuckers off?”

“Done.” The woman nods at her team, and they move off.

I glare at Pete and Turbo. “Stay well behind me. Nobody fires until I say so, you got it?”

They nod. Pete’s face is grim as death, but Turbo looks like it’s the best party he’s had in years.

I press against the wall next to the doors, and Roman flattens himself on the other side. I hold up three fingers, then count them down.

When the last one drops, I kick the doors open, and weburst into the room. It’s so dim it takes me a moment to distinguish anything at all.

Then Abby’s pale, frozen face swims into view. A man holding a gun is standing behind her.

A fucking dead man.

“Drop it, motherfucker.” I aim at his head, my finger already tightening on the trigger. I don’t want to risk shooting in this light with Abby so close, but I’ll fucking do it if I have to.

“That’s not him, Dimitry.” Leon’s voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it. His back is to us, his gun trained on someone I can’t see.

And I still don’t trust him.

“Abby.” I keep my gun leveled at the man behind her. “Stand up and walk over to me.”

“Dimitry.” Her voice is so thin it’s barely there. “We’re fine.” She nods toward the corner, and the man seated there slowly swims into view. “That’shim,” she whispers. “That’s Jacey.”

Keeping my gun trained on the man behind Abby, I allow my eyes to adjust to the light and get my first real look at the man we came here to kill.

And then I almost drop my gun altogether.

That face.

A face burned so deeply into my memory that sometimes even now I think I see it in the shadows on the pavement.

My stomach churns, adrenaline and ancient terror racing through my veins as if I’m stuck at an intersection between the dark alley of my past and the highway of my future.

It can’t be.

I fight an instinctive urge to take shelter, to hide myself from the eyes of the man in the chair.

But he isn’t looking at me anyway. He’s staring at Leon, who is pointing a gun at him.

“Dangerous friends you’ve been making, Leon,” the mansays. “Zinaida Melikov. Juan Cardeñas. And now Roman Stevanovsky. It would seem you’ve lost some of those high principles of yours, my old friend.”

That voice.

Cold, flat, and utterly devoid of humanity.

A voice that still haunts my dreams. That I sometimes think has chased me down every path I’ve chosen, whispering in my mind like the fucking torturer he was. I want to speak, but words are stuck in my throat, along with my breath.

“You might say we found common ground.” Leon’s voice is taut, low, and infinitely dangerous.

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