Page 35 of Shadows of the Past
It's better not to get attached to someone who's always been easy to leave behind, Julia.
"Take care," she says, her voice fading as she walks away.
How long has it been since someone cared whether I made it back in one piece?
?
The drive to Dublin is spent poring over camera feeds and intel. The client wants a rival to disappear, and it has to happen right after a contract is signed.
The convoy of cars is on the scheduled route, and I set my little toy into motion.
It’s a military drone, modified for jobs like this. When I need to ensure my face doesn’t show up anywhere, when the target has to go up in flames in mere seconds, it’s the perfect solution.
But when the convoy is just two miles from the destination, my terminal crashes.
Damn it. Not now. NOT NOW!
I’ve got exactly thirty seconds to fix this, or I’ll miss the window completely.
Breathe, Maksim. You built this server. Where the hell is this error coming from?
Fifteen seconds to collect myself, five to delete the faulty line of code, and two seconds to restart the server. The sound of the explosion reaches me just in time.
I lean my head against the edge of the car door.
Too close. That was way too close.
This contract is worth five million dollars. Using the advance for this job, I’ve already hired more people to extract victims from Russian ports and transport them to America.
Technically, I could have continued without it, but what I’ve managed to scrape together is nothing compared to Ivan’s billions and his influence.
I send the client a message and wait for confirmation of the transfer.
My code name for missions, Smert, has started to gain traction in the right circles. Why “death” in Russian? Because it’s the only constant in my life. The only freedom where no demon can chase you. The destination of everyone who becomes my target.
When I reach the private jet, the pilot greets me.
"Back to Moscow, Mr. Rastovski?"
I hate my surname, but it’s not like I can use my family’s name—Borisov.
Ivan doesn’t know that I’ve uncovered my origins, and it’s better this way. If he knew, he’d twist it into something that would gain him extra influence in the States. Thank God, his power across the ocean is still limited.
I close my eyes, and suddenly, the image of black, slightly wavy hair and a trembling voice pop into my mind. A voice telling me she feels the touch of a monster.
"Actually, I need you to take me to Puerto Vallarta," I tell the pilot.
"That’s quite the detour, Mr. Rastovski."
"It is, and that’s exactly why you’ll get twice the payment."
He nods without hesitation, and I settle into my seat. A few hours of sleep. A few hours to think about how many ways I can carve up a man without killing him too quickly. How many ways I can make him scream until his vocal cords bleed.
I know I fell asleep because the flight attendant wakes me, informing me we’re twenty minutes from landing.
I wish I had my motorcycle now, but since this trip wasn’t planned, I’ll have to settle for a rental car.
I’ve investigated everything I could about this Martin, and I already know where he’ll be.
