Epilogue - Victor
"We'll be in touch," I tell Adrian and hang up.
I slide my phone inside my jacket pocket as I stare at the modest country home through the windshield of this piece-of-shit Dacia.
The paint is peeling, the seats smell like cigarettes and old cologne, and the steering wheel is held together with duct tape, but it's perfect.
The Rolls would draw every eye within ten miles.
Out here, I need to blend in with the locals or grandmas start talking.
It took too long, but I finally managed to track this son of a bitch down. Located about forty minutes outside Cluj, this is the secret residence of Minister Cornel Lupu, and the place he's been hiding since Adrian found Elena.
It was hard to find since it's off the books, and none of my contacts knew about it.
The property is registered under a shell company, buried beneath layers of bureaucratic horseshit.
Ironically, a woman gave it to me. A secretary to the local mayor.
Seems Cornel takes his mistresses here, and a scorned mistress doesn't need much prodding to open up.
A bottle of expensive wine, a few compliments, and she told me all I needed.
I adjust my cufflinks and glance at myself in the rearview mirror. Take a shitty car, but I'll be damned if I'm wearing shitty clothes.
The charcoal Armani suit is pristine, the white shirt crisp, the tie perfectly knotted. I smooth a hand over my hair, checking for any stray strands. Even in a place like this, standards must be maintained.
As the sun sets behind the hills, casting shades of burnt orange and deep purple across the fields of animals, it's finally time to end this part of our conflict. Remove him and focus on the Volkovs.
Adrian wanted to do this himself, but after tonight, he'll have a new fiancée to look after, so I'll consider this an early wedding present. It's my turn to handle the dirty work.
Once it's dark, I put on my black leather gloves, flexing my fingers to test the fit. I check the handgun tucked into my shoulder holster, the suppressor nestled in my inside pocket, and the lock pick kit in my breast pocket. Everything is in place.
I slide out of the car, easing the door shut with barely a sound. I cross the dirt road and jump the waist-high stone fence easily, landing in a crouched position on the other side.
I stay low, moving through the overgrown grass and weeds toward the house. The place seems a bit run down for a wealthy man, but I guess that's the point of the place.
I pass the window and glance up briefly. Cornel sits in a chair, his back to me, staring at something I can't see. His gray hair is thin, combed over in a pathetic attempt to hide his balding scalp.
I duck down and make my way around back, toward the rear entrance I scoped out yesterday. The lock is old, and it takes me less than ten seconds to pick it. The door pops open with a click.
I pull out my gun and screw on the silencer, the metal threads catching smoothly.
Time to interrogate the traitor and execute him for Adrian and Elena.
Stepping inside, I quietly shut the door behind me and find myself standing in a small kitchen. There are dishes in the sink, a few plates crusted with dried food. A pan sits on the stove, with cold grease congealed at the bottom.
I take a few steps forward, my shoes silent on the rug. The TV is on somewhere deeper in the house, the sound muffled but audible. I move slowly, my gun raised and ready.
The hallway is narrow, the walls lined with faded floral wallpaper. I pass a bathroom, a bedroom with an unmade bed, and the TV I heard is on the local news.
I keep going, toward the room I saw him in from the window. When I reach the doorway, I pause and listen. Nothing.
I push the door open with the barrel of my gun, and there he is.
Cornel Lupu, sitting in the chair I saw him in. He hasn't moved.
"Ei bine, uite cine—"
I stop mid-sentence.
The room is a disaster. Papers are tossed everywhere, scattered across the floor. A lamp lies on its side, the bulb shattered. A filing cabinet has been overturned, its contents spilled across the rug.
And Cornel's hands are tied to the chair.
Rope binds his wrists to the armrest, and his head lies to one side, his mouth hanging open.
Then the metallic smell of blood hits me.
I tense as I step further into the room, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. Cornel's dead. His eyes stare blankly at the wall, and there's dried blood that runs from a single bullet wound just above his left ear.
But who could have beaten me to this?
The Volkovs? Are they cleaning up their loose ends?
I keep my gun raised and take another step, scanning the area.
I lean over and inspect the wound. The shot was clean. Execution style, for sure.
Suddenly, I hear it.
The unmistakable, heavy click of a gun hammer locking back directly behind my ear.
Before I can pivot, the cold steel barrel of a gun presses directly against the base of my skull.
I don't panic.
"Seems you also wanted him dead," I say, my voice calm. I try to shift, to turn and see who's holding the gun, but the barrel presses harder into my skin, and I stop. "Who are you?"
"Drop weapon. Now," the voice says.
It's a woman. Her voice is smooth and coated in a Russian accent.
I smile.
"Oh, a Russian woman. Now this is interesting."
She doesn't respond. The gun stays pressed against my skull, unmoving.
I open my fingers slowly, letting my gun clatter to the floor. It lands with a dull thud on the rug. She kicks it away, and I hear it scrape across the wood.
"Put your hands on head," she says in her Russian accent.
I comply, lacing my fingers behind my head, elbows out. My suit jacket pulls tight across my shoulders.
She steps closer, into my space. I feel her presence behind me, the faint scent of jasmine mixing with the stench of blood.
Her hands slide over my chest, quickly checking for weapons. She pats down my sides. She finds the lock pick kit in my breast pocket and tosses it to the floor. Then her hands move lower.
"Do you have blonde hair and blue eyes?" I ask, my voice smooth, conversational. "I'm a sucker for those. I bet you do."
She doesn't respond. She finds my phone and tosses it, then her hands continue their search, sliding down my left leg, checking my ankle for a gun. Nothing there, so she moves to the right leg, repeating the process.
"Oh, usually, women buy me a drink before putting their hands on my thighs."
Her hands pause for the briefest moment. Then she presses the gun barrel harder against my back.
"Usually, men don't talk this much right before they die."
I laugh.
"There she is."
She stands back up, and I feel the pressure of the gun shift back up to my neck.
"I have to get a good look at you," I say.
Slowly, I turn around, ignoring the gun aimed at me.
She's dressed in all black, the fabric tight against her body, hugging every curve perfectly. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a high bun, not a strand out of place. Her face is sharp, and she's fucking beautiful. High cheekbones, full lips, and piercing blue eyes.
The dark parts of me come alive, and instantly, I'm dangerously aroused.
I let my gaze travel from her face down to her boots and back up again.
"I came here to this shit hole to kill a rat," I say, my voice calm. "But I'll admit, the scenery just drastically improved."
She remains completely unimpressed by my charm. Her expression doesn't change, her gun steady.
She takes a step back, creating distance, but she doesn't lower the weapon.
"Oh, come on," I say. "Beautiful girl like you, I'm sure you get hit on all the time. Shit, I don't know Russian, but now I want to learn."
Her lips twitch just slightly, with a hint of a smile.
I stare at her eyes for a moment before my gaze drops to her lips.
"You must work for the Volkovs, I assume. I thought they were in bed with this guy. Why send an assassin?"
She scoffs, the sound sharp and dismissive.
"I am not an assassin. I am a cleaner. There is a difference."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Is there? It all looks the same from this end of the barrel."
Her eyes narrow on me.
"An assassin is like you. Leaves a mess. I was sent to clean up the one your brother left in Switzerland."
I shrug, glancing around at the scattered papers and the blood-soaked rug.
"I mean, it is pretty messy in here."
Her jaw tightens. She raises the gun, aiming it directly at my head.
"Okay, okay," I say quickly, raising my hands slightly in mock surrender. "Before you do whatever you have to do, tell me why the Volkovs wanted him dead. Why send a pretty girl like you all the way over here to do this?"
She takes another step back, toward the hallway, but she doesn't lower her gun.
"Do you always run your mouth with bad pickup lines?" she asks.
I laugh and rub my chin.
"Sorry, you're just not who I expected to see. Is it working?"
"No, Victor Ionescu. It's not," she says, and stares at me for a moment.
I flash my signature, arrogant smile.
"So you know me. I'm flattered," I say and wink. "Next time, don't rush the pat-down."
Her expression doesn't change, but something shifts in her eyes.
"You should have stayed in your suit, politician," she says, her voice cold.
Then her eyes narrow, and I know. I can see it in the micro-shift of her stance, the tightening of her finger on the trigger. She's going to shoot.
Before I can think better of it, I lunge for her.
I grip her hand holding the gun and push it up. She fires two bullets into the ceiling.
Then she moves fast, impossibly fast. I feel two fists to my chest, and she's spinning around me.
I reach for her, but my hand closes on empty air where she stood a second ago.
Then a white-hot pain steals the breath from my lungs.
A knife punches through my suit jacket, through the expensive shirt, sliding between my ribs.
She leans in close, her lips nearly brushing my ear.
"You're not running your mouth now," she says, her voice soft. "What a shame."
She twists the knife slowly.
I gasp, my hand instinctively reaching for the wound, but she's already stepping back, pulling the blade free in one smooth motion.
Blood spreads across my white shirt, blooming dark and fast.
She tilts her head, studying me with those cold blue eyes.
"Forget about the Volkovs, or you and your brothers will be killed quicker than we have planned."
Then she's gone.
I hear the back door slam and the sound of footsteps disappearing into the night.
I scramble to my feet, ignoring the sharp, burning pain. I grab my gun and my phone and walk down the hallway. I come out the back door, gun raised, scanning the darkness.
But she's gone, vanished into the night.
I stumble toward the Dacia, my hand pressed tight against the wound. The blood is hot, too much of it, soaking through my fingers and dripping onto the dirt.
My vision swims, and I catch myself on the hood of the car, leaving a red handprint on the peeling paint.
She just declared war on my entire family.
I yank open the car door and collapse into the driver's seat. My hands are shaking as I press them against the wound, trying to slow the bleeding.
I should call someone or drive to a hospital.
Instead, I sit there in the dark, staring at the blood on my hands.
And I laugh.
All I can think about is her face. Her eyes.
I start the engine, and the car sputters to life.
Kill you all faster than planned.
And what fucking plan is that?
I'm sure she meant those pathetic words as a threat, but I see them as an invitation.
She wants me to chase her.
And I never turn down an invitation from a beautiful woman.
I'm going to find her. And when I do, she's going to regret not finishing the job.
I grip the steering wheel with one bloody hand and shift into gear with the other, my vision slightly blurry.
One way or another, I have to survive this drive.
Because next time?
I won't show mercy.
He's used to cleaning up the messes.
Now he's the target.
The mysterious Russian operative who just shoved a blade between his ribs isn't just a problem.
She's a challenge.
And Victor Ionescu doesn't walk away from a challenge.
He's going to find her.