Page 118 of Blood & Snow
And better yet, he still has no idea I'm following him.
"Soran Shubin," I call when I’m sure the view of the two of us is obscured from sightlines in all directions.
He spins at the sound of his name, hand already reaching for the pistol beneath his coat.
But I'm faster, closing the distance before he can clear leather.
My fist connects with his solar plexus, driving the breath from his lungs as he doubles over.
I slide my ceramic blade from its sheath in a motion so fluid it could be a dance, and slice it through the air toward his jugular.
Shubin twists away, the edge opening a shallow cut across his neck instead of the killing stroke I intended.
Blood runs down his collar as he finally draws his weapon, but I'm already inside his guard.
My left hand clamps over his gun hand while my right drives the knife toward his kidney.
He's good—twenty years of survival has taught him to fight dirty—and his knee comes up toward my groin.
I pivot, taking the impact on my thigh, and use his momentum to drive him against the courtyard wall.
His skull impacts concrete with a wet sound, and his grip on the pistol weakens.
The knife finds its mark on the second attempt, sliding between ribs to puncture his lung.
He gasps, blood frothing at his lips as the blade twists deeper.
His eyes go wide with the realization that death has found him in his mother's shadow.
"For the Greeks," I whisper against his ear.
I pull my blade out and strike again, this time deeper, finding his heart.
Shubin's body goes rigid, then slack as life abandons him.
He slides down the wall, leaving a crimson streak on concrete that will freeze before morning, andbefore I've even taken a breath, his urine puddles on the ground beneath him.
Hot steam rises from his corpse as the twitching begins, and for a moment I stand over him relishing my victory.
He was a foolish man who became too predictable.
Now he has paid for his sins.
I check his pockets, removing identification and anything that might connect him to the Sokolov organization too quickly.
They'll learn who he is soon enough, but the inability to identify his body immediately means the Sokolovs won't know another of their men has been taken.
His wallet contains a photograph—the old woman from 2B, smiling at the camera with innocent joy.
But I stand over another mess, another scene that requires Nadya's particular skills.
The thought of her sends electricity through my veins, anticipation mixing with the adrenaline that still pulses through me from tonight's work.
I dial her number, the phone ringing twice before her voice fills my ear.
"Da?"
"I need you," I tell her quietly, and my god is that more true than ever.
