Page 66 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

I sense the other one before I see him—a sixth sense honed in blood—and shift the man in my grip just as a shot cracks the night; the human shield jerks and goes limp in my arms.

Amateur hour’s over.

I drop him and move through the shadows, circling back toward where the shot came from. The hunt is on, and I’m never the prey.

Somebody breaks into a run. I give chase.

I catch a glimpse of him as we turn onto a street crowded with civilians, all laughter and chatter, oblivious to our deadly game. He’s big—built like a vault door—dark jacket and dark cap. Looks Albanian.

He cuts through a deserted office courtyard. His mistake. In the open, with no witnesses, he’s already mine.

I’m on him before he clears the other side, slamming him against a half-built cinderblock wall with enough force to crack mortar. “Who sent you into my backyard?”

He surges at me with practiced combinations—military trained—and sends my piece flying. Doesn’t matter. My fists were forged in hotter fires than this.

He lands a few hits, and I return with concentrated fury, fists finding his face, his ribs, his throat. The satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage is poetry under my knuckles.

That’s when I feel the others approaching.

A setup.

They took out Storm to isolate me. Their first and final mistake.

Pure adrenaline floods my system as two shadows materialize, metal glinting in their hands.

The guy I just demolished is still clinging to consciousness against the wall. I grab him by the collar and drag us both behind a dumpster, finishing what I started with mechanical efficiency before relieving him of his weapon.

I lean around and fire at the closer shadow. Miss. Unacceptable.

The equation changes. Survival becomes the only objective. They’re flanking me—professionals who’ve done this dance before.

My instincts take command. I fire where they don’t expect, making them retreat. I fire again and catch one square in the chest. The odds improve.

Now we’re even, and even is all I’ve ever needed.

Sirens wail in the distance, but they can’t drown out the whisper of shoes on gravel that betrays his position.

I glide through the darkness, head throbbing from that earlier blow, and launch myself at him. The impact alone is enough to steal his breath.

We’re face-to-face now. He’s bleeding badly, but he’ll live long enough to talk. “Just you and me now. A name. Give me that, and you walk away.”

He shakes his head, loyalty still binding his tongue.

I regulate my breathing, focusing through the fog threatening to claim me. If I black out, he wins. “Tell me. Do të mbaj besën,” I add in Albanian, invoking an oath older than either of us.

His eyes meet mine, recognition dawning.

“Nobody will know. The money stays yours. This employer of yours—he’s a hornet in your hat,” I say, invoking one of our oldest warnings. “You know what happens to men who keep hornets close.”

Something breaks behind his eyes. “Killian,” he whispers.

“Irish?”

“Yup.”

I relieve him of his weapon and disappear into the night. I check my app and see West isn’t far. I ping him for extraction and settle into the shadows to wait. Our encrypted system connects us like a family should be connected. Storm adapted it from battlefield tech.

Five minutes later, West is pulling up in front of me. He throws me a towel as I slide in the back. “What the fuck? Someone made a move?”

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