Page 129 of Dual
Then I hang up the phone, open the door without ever unlatching the chain, and snatch my dinner inside before locking the several heavy deadbolts again, heart pounding.
FORTY
November
MADS
I’m tired and cranky.It’s been a long summer and now fall of creeping around Europe and the Mediterranean, waiting for assholes to pop out of their little holes so I can slice their necks. I got to build a bomb in Zurich. That was fun. Domhn helped source supplies for it. He wasn’t happy about that, but then, what the hell is that man happy about these days?
Every time I call, it’s grouch grouch grouch, all maudlinI-miss-yousandwhen-are-you-coming-homesandyou-don’t-need-all-this-blood-on-your-handsblah blah blah.
I don’t mind the blood. Anna stays safely tucked away most of the time unless the parasite needs dealing with—like yesterday, when the heartburn and back spasms were so bad, Red and I both noped out and let Anna have every minute of it. Pregnancy at eight months in is worse than having your fingernails pried off, in my humble opinion. We spent August in Madrid in a flat with no air-conditioning, and I thought I was gonna murder Red, if I could’ve got her separated enough from me to do it. The little sociopathic bitch kept sucking on all the ice to cool herself down and then not refilling the trays.
I glare down at the parasite making us so lumbering and off-balance.
Seriously, who the fuck came up with this design?
Why couldn’t we be like lizards and just lay an egg you could put under a heat lamp or some shit for nine months? This was some serious evolutional fuckup, if I do say so myself.
Red’s a pretty dexterous and lethal little shit, but even she’s become off balance and almost not able to hold her own in this new pear-shaped body. We topple sideways at unexpected times, have fat ankles, and retain water like a bitch when we travel. Which is almost constantly, since staying on the move is all but a requirement in this line of work. Hardly ideal for always keeping the drop on the enemy. Last week, Red actually broke a sweat when a bullet zinged within half an inch of our fucking head.
At least there’s one advantage of being a whale on feet.
Everybody underestimates a little pregnant lady.
And I mean, fuck, I’ll take it. I’ve never been more invisible in my life. Invisible is good in the spy world. Or assassin world. Is that what I am? I mean, it’ll be a short-lived career, but still.
The parasite kicks against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and I wince, pressing a gloved hand to my side. “Easy there, little psychopath,” I mutter. “You’ll get your turn to wreak havoc soon enough. There are too many of us in here as it is. Be glad you get to be pooped out soon.”
Today, I’m huffing through a snowy forest so I can stay under the tree coverage, in snowshoes and trekking poles on top of a goddamn mountain in Russia. Afuckingmountain infucking Russia. With a huge fucking parasite sticking out of my belly like a lead bucket trying to knock me off balance every goddamned step.
Why is this my fuckinglife? I mean, Jesus, the shit I’ve put up with to keep the girl alive at this point! I deserve retirement on a beach somewhere with Domhnall bringing me endless Mai Tais and dropping his drawers to be my fuckboy whenever I need to be railed hard and put away wet.
My snowshoe slips sideways, and I topple into the hip-deep snow.
“Motherfucking taint of a cunt!” I hiss under my breath.
At least this is only the second time I’ve tipped over into the fucking snow. I manage to climb out and resettle my widesnow shoes back in place—the only thing keeping me on top of the drift, for the most part.
It would’ve been faster to come in on a snowmobile, but also more noticeable.
Kozlov has to know I’ll be coming for the facility after the other strikes, so I can’t risk anything out of the ordinary. This bastard was Pavel’s connection to Brad Blackwolf—the whole fucking money-laundering operation that got Domhnall’s sister and me kidnapped in the first place. I’ve been systematically dismantling their network for months, leaving a trail of bodies across three continents. Kozlov is the last. The final loose end. I wanted him to be afraid, knowing the reaper was coming.
The snow crunches under my feet, each step deliberate despite the awkward weight distribution. My breath comes out in white puffs, and I can feel sweat beading under my thermal layers despite the bitter cold. Pine trees tower above me, their branches heavy with snow that occasionally drops in chunks, making me flinch and reach for weapons I’ve carefully concealed beneath my winter gear and in my backpack.
But even if there are hidden cameras I don’t see, I make sure to smile brightly all around me, like I’m just a tourist taking in the majestic scene before me, even if Iamon the mountain far too late for a tourist. It’s just past sunset.
It’s only when I’m nearing the edge of the forest to the Kozlov fortress that I freeze in my tracks and dive inelegantly behind a tree, grabbing my belly as I drop into the snow.
Because fuck!
There, at the edge of the trees, is another man, hunched over on his belly in the snow with binoculars trained down on the ski lodge where the Kozlov Bratva kingpin holes up over summer, and whenever he feels threatened, like now.
But shit. Is this guy one of his guards? Shit shit shit.
Yeah, these woods are patrolled, but I thought I knew the patrol schedule. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I feel the parasite respond to my adrenaline spike with a series of sharp kicks that make me bite back a curse.
This complicates everything. If this is one of Kozlov’s men, my cover could be blown. If it’s someone else—well, that could be even worse. Competition means unpredictability, and unpredictability gets people killed.
