Kill for You (Warrior for Her #2)

Chapter Seventeen

Octavio

" S wear to Christ, if you're a crackhead, I'm going to lose my shit," Kincaid growls from the other side of January's front door. "It's two in the goddamn morning. My girl is trying to sleep, and so am I." He rips the door open, his expression thunderous until he realizes it's me and Roman standing on his doorstep. He quickly shoves the gun in his hand into his waistband.

"We need your help," Roman says by way of greeting.

Kincaid flicks his blue-gray eyes in my direction and then back at Roman. He sighs heavily and holds the door open wider for us to step inside.

"Fucking knew I'd be seeing you soon," he mutters with a shake of his blond head, shutting the door and rearming the security system. With a piercing in his nose, small gauges in his ears, and tattoos covering most of his upper body, he looks more like a gangbanger than a federal agent. Acts more like one too.

He's dressed in nothing but a pair of jeans, his hair wild. The artwork covering his big body is incredible. January's name runs across his side in an elegant scrawl. Her face stares up from his other side. I pick out the Aquarius zodiac sign in a dozen other places. He's covered in reminders of her.

The scars littering his body are almost as prolific as his tattoos. They're a stark reminder as to why gang members are so fucking terrified of him. They've been trying to kill him for years, but he's survived every single attempt…and came back like a demon every time. He's put dozens of them in hospitals, and hundreds more behind bars.

"Cade?" January peeks around the corner. Her long blonde hair is all messed up. She's dressed in nothing but a T-shirt that clearly belongs to him. It swallows her small frame. When she notices me and Roman standing in the living room, her green eyes go wide, a blush staining her cheeks. Those eyes grow even wider when she notices the blood stains on my clothes.

"Hi, sweetheart," Roman says, smiling at her.

"Hi, Roman. Hi, Octavio." She smiles at both of us, tugging on the hem of her shirt as if she's trying to make it longer, but it's already at her knees.

"You should be in bed resting, baby girl," Kincaid murmurs, his voice soft as he crosses toward her. He leans down and kisses her on the forehead before turning her toward the bedroom. "You're still healing."

"I was worried about you."

Kincaid tips his head forward to whisper something in her ear.

Her eyes come to me and then go back to him. "Okay," she whispers, her entire face soft as she stares up at him like he hung the moon. She gives me and Roman a little wave and then shuffles back to their bedroom, moving slowly.

Kincaid watches her until she's gone and then turns back to us, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression firms, the softness leeching from his eyes. He doesn't look pissed though. More…resigned. "I'm guessing you aren't here for the fun of it," he says, looking at me. "What happened?"

"Nikolai Tarasova's people came after Faith tonight. Ambushed them in a parking lot," Roman answers for me.

"Is she okay?"

"She's scared." I clench my jaw at the reminder, rage stealing over me again. Seeing her afraid is intolerable to me. She's lived in fear far too goddamn long because of those pendejos . It ends tonight.

"You leave any of them alive?" Kincaid asks, still watching me with that inscrutable expression.

"Two got away," I mutter, still pissed about it. "Victor Milonov and another I couldn't identify."

"I warned Leyva you were going to rip Tarasova apart if he came for her." Kincaid shakes his head and then scrubs a hand down his face. January comes back out of the bedroom a moment later, a pair of leggings on under her t-shirt. She hands two shirts to Kincaid.

"This should fit," he mutters, tossing one of them to me without even looking at it.

I catch it.

January squeezes his bicep and then shuffles to the kitchen. He watches her go before pulling the second t-shirt on over his head.

"So, what's the plan?" he asks.

"Kill Milonov," I mutter, dead serious.

Kincaid smirks at me but doesn't say anything.

Roman fills him in on what we know while I shrug out of my blood-stained button up and pull his t-shirt on over my head. Like he said, it fits. We're almost the same size.

January steps out of the kitchen with a trash bag in her hands and pads over to me. "They'll probably want you to keep your shirt for evidence or something," she says, holding the bag out to me with a tentative smile. "I hope Faith is okay."

"Thank you, pequena ," I murmur to her, taking the bag from her hands and shoving my bloody shirt inside.

Kincaid keeps a careful eye on her as she ties it up for me and then hands it back before crossing back to his side. He wraps an arm around her, dropping a kiss on top of her head. Watching him with her feels a little like looking in the mirror. Like Faith, she's tiny, barely reaching his chest. She's soft to his hard. He watches her like she's the center of his world, fierce protection and gentle adoration brimming in his eyes anytime he looks at her.

"Get back in bed, baby girl," he orders her, his tone soft.

"I'm going." She smiles up at him and then heads back to their room, leaving us alone again. She looks better than she did last time I saw her. She's healing.

Kincaid notices me watching her.

"She's good," he murmurs, meeting my gaze. "We're all good, Hernandez."

I jerk my chin in a nod, knowing he means that he and I are cool as much as he means that the two of them are doing okay. But I still feel the need to say something.

"For what it's worth," I tell him, "I never wanted to take the case in the first place. I wasn't given a choice."

"I know. As far as I'm concerned, that shit is in the past. We're good, man." He glances toward the bedroom and then back to me. "She's safe, and she's happy. That's all that matters to me. You really think Tarasova is after your girl because she's this football player's kid?"

"I do."

"Finn is working on getting his hands on her medical records so we can confirm," Roman says.

Kincaid's eyes ice over, anger turning them more blue than gray. "Getting real tired of motherfuckers targeting women over money," he mutters, no doubt referring to the fact that Curtis Kaleo targeted him and January over his trust fund. Kincaid didn't even know the trust fund existed until he was an adult, but Kaleo figured it out years ago.

"If she is his kid, she may be worth millions," I say.

Kincaid cocks his head to the side, pinning me with a glare. "What if you're wrong? You prepared to declare war on the Russian mafia for a slave?"

" She isn't a fucking slave. She's my life," I growl, holding his gaze. "And I don't give a fuck if she's a millionaire or not. I loved her when she didn't have anything. I'll love her if she finds out she can have anything. It doesn't matter to me if she's Jackson's heir. I'm more than capable of taking care of her, providing for her. If she has money, it's her money. She certainly won't need it so long as I'm around. And I'll do whatever the fuck I have to do to protect her, even if that means I have to take Tarasova out too."

"Had you answered any other way, I'd have kicked your ass right back out of here. Her money doesn't matter. She does. Don't forget that shit, man."

"Don't plan on it."

Kincaid claps his hands together, his grin turning predatory. He may be a federal agent, but he's not tame. He's a wild animal, more than willing to kill to defend what belongs to him.

That makes two of us.

"Now that we're on the same page, let's go fuck up his world," Kincaid says.

We swing by my office so I can make copies of several pages from Faith's notebook, and then we head out. By the time we make it to Tarasova's territory, it's almost four in the morning, and Finn still hasn't called us with any information on Faith's father. Ilya's bar is lit up like it's open for business when we roll by, thank God. If Tarasova had done something to hurt him, it would have broken Faith's heart.

"We're all in agreement that he isn't getting his hands on her whether she's a millionaire or not," Kincaid says from the front seat, "so it doesn't really matter if that detail is confirmed right now. We're going to have a friendly chat, threaten to burn his world to the ground if he doesn't back off. Once he sees how much shit you have on him, I'm thinking he's going to realize he doesn't have a choice. If not, it'll at least give us time to decide our next move."

"Octavio, you good with the plan?" Roman asks, creeping down the street in his truck.

"Fine," I mutter, not really caring what they come up with this so long as it gets me close to Tarasova.

"Then let's roll up on this motherfucker," Kincaid says.

Roman hits the control panel to turn on his takedown lights. We want everyone to see us coming. They're less likely to start shooting if we make a scene. He heads toward the house Faith detailed in her notebook.

Tarasova is a paranoid motherfucker. He's also smart. He could live in a mansion like a lot of mob members, but he lives among his people instead, right where he has eyes on them every day…and anyone who wants to get at him has to go through them.

The tidy three-story brownstone is one of the nicest in the area, but it's not flashy enough to draw attention or paint an arrow that screams it belongs to him. It fits in with the older homes. It's just better maintained…cleaner.

A couple pricks sitting on a porch two doors down notice us creeping up the block and hop to their feet. They're young, maybe Faith's age. One is covered in tattoos. The other looks clean cut and preppy. The preppy one reaches for his waistband, but the kid with the tattoos puts a steadying hand on his arm and gives him a quick shake of his head. They eye us warily, like they aren't sure what's going on.

Kincaid chuckles and rolls his windows down.

"Yo, ublyudki !" he yells at them, his voice booming. "Tell your boss Michael Kincaid is here to see him."

"Who?" Preppy yells back.

"Don't act like you don't know my fucking name," Kincaid growls. "You'll hurt my feelings. Just tell Tarasova to get his ass out here before I send SWAT crawling all over his fucking house. Caspice? "

"That's Italian, not Russian," Roman mutters to him.

Kincaid cuts his eyes at him. "Dude, everyone knows caspice means 'Do you understand or should I just fucking shoot you?'. It's universal. And look,"—he throws a hand up, pointing at the motherfuckers on the porch, one of whom now has a cellphone to his ear—"they're doing what I told them to do, so we're good, Sasquatch."

"Man, fuck you and that nickname," Roman mutters, though he can't hide the way his lips twitch with amusement. "I thought January would have settled your ass down by now, but you're still a pain in my ass."

Kincaid flips him off before raising his voice. "Yo, what the fuck is taking so long? Tell him to get his flavor of the day off his jock, and get out here. I got shit to do."

The kid with the cellphone says something too low for us to hear and then looks at his friend and nods. The younger of the two eyes Kincaid with a new respect.

"Guess he knows my fucking name now," Kincaid mutters, satisfaction in his voice.

"Tarasova says you can come to the house."

"Yeah, that's not going to work for me," Kincaid says without missing a beat. "Tell him I said step his ass outside. I'm losing my goddamn patience here."

The kid on the phone says something and then listens for a minute.

Kincaid taps his wrist like he's telling him to hurry the fuck up. The man has no patience. Mierda. I guess he doesn't need patience though. Kincaid knows Tarasova won't refuse to see him. The last thing Tarasova wants is Kincaid taking an interest in his business. Tarasova may be alpha on this block, but everyone knows Kincaid is King from California to the Canadian border.

"He's coming out," the kid mutters, hanging up the phone.

"About fuckin' time," Kincaid says.

Roman pulls his truck to the curb and puts it in park but leaves the engine running. Kincaid and I climb out, slamming our doors. Roman stays in the driver's seat so we can make a quick escape if Tarasova decides to pull anything. I don't think he's that stupid though. It's one thing to send his men after a woman no one knows. It would be suicide for him to try to take down a cop and two federal agents. Every agency from LAPD to the FBI would rip this neighborhood apart.

Tarasova steps outside a few moments later.

" Hijo de puta ," I snarl, taking a step in his direction when my gaze lands on Victor Milonov, who steps out behind Tarasova. Rage slices through me so hard and fast my head throbs as my blood pressure skyrockets. I'm going to kill him. "?Voy a matarlo! "

"Chill," Kincaid says under his breath, blocking me with his arm. "Let me handle this shit, Hernandez."

I clench my hands into tight fists, trying to beat back the wave of fury demanding I pull my gun and end Milonov here and now. He's not walking away from what he did tonight. Kincaid is in for a surprise if he thinks that's going to happen. I won't allow it.

Tarasova and Milonov jog down the steps and head toward us. Milonov is maybe six feet, with a bald head. He's bulky with a barrel chest, not quite fat but not muscular either. He looks exactly like the violent Bratva prick he is. Tattoos crawl up his neck, blaring his allegiance to Russia and Tarasova.

He catches sight of me as they head our way, but he doesn't so much as blink. He's stone cold, exactly as Faith described him. He knows who I am though. I see the brief flare of recognition in his blue eyes.

Tarasova is pissed, his blue eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. He looks far younger than he is, closer to fifty than creeping through his mid-sixties. He dresses like a fucking businessman, wearing an expensive Italian suit even at four in the goddamn morning. It's all bullshit. He's savage, vicious…more than willing to commit any number of crimes just because he can.

"Agent Kincaid," he says, drawing to a stop several feet from us. Ire flashes in his eyes. "Is there any particular reason you're in my neighborhood harassing me?"

Rage digs its claws into my back, sending fury screaming through my veins. I charge toward him, planting my gun against the side of his head. I want to rip his throat out; repay every ounce of terror and grief he gave Faith. Even then, it won't be enough. Until he's buried six feet under, the shadow of his presence completely eliminated from her life, it won't be enough.

"You dirty motherfucker," I growl, breathing hard as I slam him up against the side of an SUV. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't pull the fucking trigger."

Tarasova holds my gaze, not flinching. "Just one, Detective Hernandez?" His gaze flickers over my shoulder to the kids standing on the porch. "You mean other than the dozen witnesses watching right now?"

"Hernandez, this is not you letting me handle it," Kincaid says. He doesn't sound too fucked up about it, though.er

"You tortured her for years, you piece of shit." I shove the gun harder against Tarasova's temple, fighting like hell not to pull the trigger when that's exactly what I want to do. Cristo, I want him dead and gone so badly I can taste it. But it's not enough.

If he dies, one of his people will simply step up and take over. They'll still be here, still doing the same shit they did to Faith. She won't be any freer than she is right now. Until every single one of them is dead, behind bars, or back in Russia, she'll always be looking over her shoulder.

Tarasova says nothing. He doesn't beg for his life. That's beneath him. But anger glitters in the depths of his eyes. He'd kill me right now if he could. Too goddamn bad for him, that's not going to happen.

"Your life is over, Tarasova," I warn him. "And Faith Donovan ended it." I jerk the gun away from his temple, turning it on Milonov. "And you're going to die tonight, pendejo ."

Milonov actually smiles at me like he thinks I told a joke.

"You done yet?" Kincaid asks me.

I jerk my chin in a nod, stepping back to where he's lounging against the side of the truck like an indolent king. My heart pounds, fury still coursing through me. Cristo, I want to pull the trigger and end them both. I keep my gun trained on Milonov instead, and my eyes on Tarasova.

"Good, because I came to deliver news," Kincaid says, staring right at Tarasova.

"What news?"

"Your boy Ivan Sedov is dead. So are Maksim Semenova and some dude with a gap between his teeth and a cross tattooed on the side of his neck. Don't know his fucking name, but yeah, he's mertvyy too. That is how you say dead, right?" Kincaid shrugs like he doesn't care if he's using the correct word or not, though I have a feeling he speaks Russian as fluently as I do.

A brief moment of surprise flares in Tarasova's eyes, there and gone so quickly anyone else would have missed it, but I was waiting for his reaction. He didn't know three of his people died tonight. Which means Milonov didn't tell him what went down.

"Shit," Kincaid laughs, clearly not missing his reaction either. "You didn't know, did you? Then I guess I have some more bad news for you, motherfucker."

"You want to tell him, or should I?" I ask, looking right at Milonov.

" Poshol nahuj ," he says without even blinking.

"Tell me what?" Tarasova asks.

"That Sedov, Semenova, the other dead guy, and your homeboy here tried to kill Detective Hernandez and Faith Donovan tonight," Kincaid says, nodding at Milonov. His expression hardens. "Obviously that didn't work out well for them. Your people are dead, but mine are straight, which is also bad news for you, Tarasova. Because I had to leave my girl in bed alone to come deal with this shit. And if I have a problem, you damn sure have a problem."

"He's lying," Milonov says.

"8TLV177."

Tarasova looks at me.

"The license plate on the car he was driving," I say, my voice lethally soft. "I shot out the driver's side window and the back window. There's also damage to the driver's side mirror." I flick my gaze from Tarasova to Milonov. "You shouldn't have driven your own car, pendejo ."

Milonov doesn't react. He really is a stone-cold son of a bitch.

"Why are you telling me this?" Tarasova asks.

"Because I wanted to look you in the eyes when I tell you that they signed your death warrant tonight, Tarasova," I murmur, keeping my voice soft. "I'm coming for you, and I'm going to fuck up your entire world. You're going to watch it all crumble before I finally let you die."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he lies, though he can't hide the flash of anger in his gaze at my threat. Nor can he hide the way his jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together. I don't think he's particularly happy to hear that his people not only did this without his consent, but that they just screwed him in the process.

"Is that really how you want to play this?" Kincaid shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. He pops open the truck door and then grabs the small stack of papers off the dashboard. When he climbs back out of the truck, Tarasova and Milonov both reach for the guns tucked in their waistbands like they expect him to turn around and start shooting. He simply shoots them a look of disgust and hands over the copied notes.

"What is this?" Tarasova asks, glancing between the two of us, and then down at the papers in his hands.

"Fodder," Kincaid says. "Enough of it to send your entire operation up in flames."

"You thought you had her beaten, but you didn't. She remembers everything you did to her, every word you said around her, and every move you made." I point at the papers in his hands, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. "Those are just a small part of what we have on you. She's identified every Bratva member she's ever set eyes on, every suspected crime she's ever connected to you and your buddies. Names, dates, we have it all."

"Coupled with what we already know about your operation and your movements…well, I hope you have a hell of a lot of water on hand, Tarasova," Kincaid says. "Because the girl you terrorized is about to burn this motherfucker to the ground." He gives Tarasova a vicious smile, his steely blue-gray eyes ice cold. "Never fucking come for my family again. Faith Donovan is under my protection. Get a leash on your goddamn dogs, and remove the hit, or I'll put them down one by one, and then come for you personally. You have three days before shit starts to get real motherfucking uncomfortable for you. You feel me?"

Tarasova glares at him but isn't stupid enough to push his buttons or test him.

"Get the fuck out of my sight, and take this big piece of shit with you," Kincaid says, pointing at Milonov.

Tarasova turns on his heel and starts to walk away, Milonov following behind him.

"Milonov."

He turns back to me.

I pull the trigger, not even flinching. His eyes meet mine, a look of shock crossing his face like he can't believe I've actually shot him in his own neighborhood. And then he hits the ground.

"Shit," Kincaid curses like he wasn't expecting that. He turns a dark glare on me, which I ignore.

I warned them. They really should have listened.

The two kids on the porch both yell, reaching for their guns.

" Net !" Tarasova shouts, halting them in their tracks. "Otpusti ikh! "

He glances at Milonov and then at me, watching as I tuck the gun in my waistband again. He doesn't say a word, but he lifts his chin, silently letting me know he isn't going to retaliate for what I just did.

Milonov groans, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his abdomen. If he's lucky, he'll die quickly. But I don't think he's going to be lucky because I didn't aim to kill. I aimed to make it hurt like a motherfucker.

"If he's still breathing when the sun rises, I'm coming back for him," I warn Tarasova, already knowing he won't last that long. Tarasova will kill him as soon as we drive away. And when he dies, his blood will be on Tarasova's hands, not mine.

"Suck it up," Kincaid mutters to Milonov. "You're lucky he didn't shoot you in the fucking head. Scratch that," he amends when he sees the scathing look Tarasova shoots in the man's direction. "I think you would have been lucky if he had shot you in the head."

"Andrey, Daniil," Tarasova says to the kids on the porch. " Privedi yego ."

The two kids on the porch jog in our direction.

Tarasova looks at me again after giving the order for them to bring Milonov to him. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. Murder glints in his eyes. Milonov isn't going to survive the night.

Tarasova turns and walks back toward his house, confident that Andrey and Daniil will do as ordered.

"Tell your buddy Rick Sanders I'm coming for him next," I mutter to Milonov and then climb in the truck, slamming the door.

Kincaid hops in the front seat, flipping off Andrey and Daniil, who scowl at him.

"So, who the fuck is Rick Sanders?" he asks as Roman pulls away.

I tip my head back against the seat, too goddamn tired to answer him.

"Gregory? Hernandez?" Sanders squints at us through bleary eyes, looking like he's surprised to see us on his doorstep at the break of dawn. "What the fuck are you two doing here?"

I push my way inside, nearly knocking him down in the process. Roman walks in behind me, kicking the door closed. Sanders stumbles back a couple steps, his expression going from patently false confusion to anger and then to outright fear. I ignore him and glance around.

His living room is a mess of empty beer cans. A pizza box sits on the coffee table. The television plays faintly, some workout video he's obviously not watching. His house is nothing more than the mismatched bachelor pad I expected from a guy like him.

"Seriously, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"You know why we're here," I mutter, grabbing him by the arm and twisting it behind his back in a ruthless hold.

He cries out, trying to yank free of my grip, but it's a useless attempt. He's clearly been drinking all night, and I could take him on his best day. I kick him in the side of the knee, listening to the satisfying crunch of cartilage snapping. He hits the floor with a strangled scream.

"I warned you to stay the fuck away from her," I growl, putting more pressure on his arm. His elbow snaps.

"I didn't go near her!" he cries, trying to squirm away from me.

"That's not what Victor told us," Roman says, leaning back against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. The look of disgust on his face makes it clear he's not going to help Sanders anytime soon.

"Milonov is lying, man! I haven't been anywhere near her! I promise."

Roman laughs loudly, not even bothering to tell him he just outed himself as the other man in that car last night. He wouldn't have known who we were talking about if he wasn't involved. Not that I had any doubts or anything. It wasn't hard to figure out he was the one who told them where she was.

It wouldn't surprise me to find out he's the one who shot at us in the parking lot a few weeks ago, either.

"For someone who graduated at the top of his class, you're a dumb son of a bitch." I drop his arm and slam my fist into his face. His nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays across my hand. I fling it off and hit him again. He falls forward, curling into a little ball like that's going to save him. "You're lucky I don't fucking kill you, Sanders."

"Please," he sobs. "Please don't."

"Shut the fuck up," Roman mutters, kicking his hand away when he reaches out toward him in supplication.

"You sent them after her, you son of a bitch," I growl, clenching my hands in an attempt to keep myself from strangling the life out of him like he deserves. I settle for kicking him in the ribcage. "You helped them track her down and then you helped them try to kill her."

"They weren't supposed to shoot at her," he sobs. "They were just supposed to capture her. She was worth more to Tarasova alive. I swear I didn't know they were going to try to kill the two of you."

"You heard enough?" Roman asks me.

I nod, grinding my teeth together. Every cell in my body screams at me to end his life here and now, but I can't do that. As pathetic as he is, he used to be a cop. His life will be miserable enough in prison. And he will be going to prison. Faith gave him the one free pass he gets. He should have stayed away from her.

"You're under arrest for the attempted murders of Faith Donovan and Octavio Hernandez," Roman says, reaching out to haul Sanders to his feet. He's not gentle about it either, making Sanders howl in pain as he drags him outside to Livingston and Coulter.

"Jesus," Coulter says, looking Sanders over with an amused grin on his face. "Did he fall down a flight of stairs?"

"Looks that way," I mutter.

Roman hands Sanders off to Livingston, who puts him in the back of his cruiser until an ambulance gets here to deal with him. Sanders cries the entire way, sobbing that he's sorry and he didn't mean it. The cabrón isn't smart enough to ask for a lawyer and keep his goddamn mouth shut. Not that it will do him any good. He was screaming loud enough for Livingston and Coulter to hear his confession.

"How'd you know it was him?" Roman asks once the ambulance pulls away with Livingston and Coulter following behind in Livingston's cruiser.

"Process of elimination. Tarasova wants her alive, and his people know it. So Sedov and Milonov weren't acting on his orders, which his people also would have known. They aren't well enough liked for many to follow them willingly, especially if it meant defying Tarasova. And Sanders was the only one who knew for sure that Faith was with me." I scrub a hand down my face, checking the time.

It's already after seven in the morning. We still haven't heard from Finn, and now we're waiting for Tarasova to fold too. Not that it'll do him any good. Regardless of whether he removes the hit, I'll continue building a case against him and every member of his cartel. One way or another, his life is about to get very uncomfortable.

I want that motherfucker to watch me destroy everything he's spent his entire life building. And every goddamn time one of his people disappears, I want him to know what he did to Faith is the reason. I don't want someone else in charge, picking up where he left off. I want every single one of them out of this fucking city. And that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Tarasova won't survive when I'm finished. But he spent five years tormenting Faith. Now, it's his goddamn turn. He's going to lose everything, and I want him to see it happen. There will be no Tarasova Cartel when I'm finished.

"You know Tarasova is after Selena Ortega's kid too," Roman murmurs as we walk back to his truck. "Maybe she was the one he was talking about making him a king."

"She wasn't," I grunt, not a doubt in my mind that he meant Faith.

Dios , Faith.

My entire body aches with the need to feel her in my arms again, but I can't yet. I still have things to take care of before I can go back to her. Starting with finding out whether or not I still have a job.