Chapter 24 #2
I don’t let their cheers bolster me. I don’t have space for it.
The compound in Hudson Valley is a converted estate—old stone, substantial grounds, the kind of property that looks like old money and functions as a fortress.
Fedor has made modifications that a man who spent seven years in federal prison planning his return to operational life would make.
Cameras, reinforced entry points, and a perimeter that has been designed by someone who knows what they’re doing.
None of that matters now.
We breach three points simultaneously, catching them unaware. The east entry, the service access at the north, and the main approach, which I take with Dmitri and two others, because the main approach is the one Fedor will expect, and I want him to know it is me coming.
The hired guns fight. I said they would calculate, and they do, but the calculation takes time, and time is what my men do not give them.
Dmitri moves through the east wing with focused efficiency.
Igor handles the north group. I hear the sounds of the compound coming apart around me as I move through it—gunshots, wails, the thuds of bodies, screams—and I keep moving. My men keep moving.
As we round a corner, though, my group is separated by gunfire. Seems they got their shit together. Marcus is clipped in the shoulder, and Anton is shot in the calf.
I take out the shooter and tell my men to cover the next corner. Foolish, maybe. Molly would hate what I’m about to do.
I do it anyway.
Fedor is not in his bedroom. Even if he were the type to use it for sleeping or fucking, he would not be there by now. The safe room is the only place for cowards.
I wish I could see his face as I enter the code.
When the heavy metal door opens slowly, bullets ping off of it. Shots are fired in panic. He’s alone, which tells me his last men have made their calculations and found the money insufficient, which is as it should be.
He looks older than the photographs, harder and more angular. He holds up his gun by the trigger guard. “I’m out. You?”
“I’m not.” I level my gun at him. But part of me knows this is wrong. Shooting an unarmed man is efficient, but it won’t give me what I want.
He eyes me. Then my gun. “You’re not the type to kill an unarmed—”
I fire just over his shoulder. I like making him jump.
His nostrils flare. “Maybe you are the type.”
Curiosity killed the cat, as they say. Perhaps I am a cat tonight. “That depends, Fedor. What do you propose?”
“Me vs. you. Fists. Winner take all.”
“I have the gun. I have the men, swarming your little home. I have every reason to put a hole in your brain right the fuck now. Why should I take you up on such a bullshit offer?”
“The same reason you’re talking instead of shooting. You want to know. Just like I do.” He has always read people very well.
I put my gun on the table beside me. He puts his on the floor.
“Before we begin,” he says, “why did you put me away?”
“You know why.”
“You risked federal involvement for revenge over one man?”
My jaw grits. “Kirill Andreeva was not simply one man. He was a good man. And you had him killed just to get my attention, as the note said.”
“And then you tricked me into killing my brigadier, thinking he went to Interpol.” He smirks. “The artistry of it is impressive, Pavel.”
“Everyone always forgets the other three people in the car you bombed to get Daniel. Do you even remember their names?”
“Does it matter?” He begins to circle me, fists at the ready.
“Names don’t matter to men like you. That is why your name will be forgotten when you’re gone.” I circle in kind.
He’s the first to swing. He’s better than I expected. I will say this without qualification—Fedor Vinogradov has spent seven years becoming something more dangerous than what he was. He is fast and brutal and trained, which is not something I had fully prepared myself for.
His right hook swings wide, though, and I fit in the pocket, tapping the brachial nerve from the inside of that arm to light him up.
Then I spin backward against him, crashing us both to the floor.
I stomp on his groin to propel myself from his body just in time to catch the flash of a blade in the low light.
I roll to my hands and knees as he slashes my forearm, then pop that bloody elbow into his throat, crushing his windpipe.
He clutches helplessly at his throat, nearly stabbing himself there before remembering to drop the knife. His eyes are wide as his throat works against him now.
“This is an undignified death, Fedor.” I sit on the stool in the corner.
“The only kind you deserve. No one will miss you. The only time someone mentions your name will be to warn others what I am capable of. Nobody will mourn you. No one will weep. If there is an afterlife, you will go to the worst of the hells because you can’t even speak to confess your sins or beg forgiveness.
” I lean forward over his twitching face, watching the light slowly leave his eyes.
“When you get there, tell the other devils not to bother me yet. I still have work to do.”
His eyes go blank, and it is done.
The drive home is quiet. My men are secure, my wounded will live, and the compound is being cleared with the thoroughness I require. We lost no one on our side. Fedor’s men are a total loss, bar the three or four who escaped.
I do not mind them. Hired hands who live to tell the tale will make me into a rumor. A threat. A dark legend. All of which serve my purpose.
The mansion is dark when we arrive except for the light in the upstairs bedroom, which means she’s awake. Waiting. Aware.
I go upstairs.
She’s sitting up in bed with a book she’s not reading, and she looks at me when I come in. There is a multitude of feelings on her face. Anger. Hurt. Worry. Betrayal. More, I’m sure of it.
But there is one worry I can put to rest. “Fedor is dead. I killed him.”
She exhales, and it is a full-body thing. “Then it’s over.”
“One battle.” I come and sit on the edge of the bed. “There will be more. There are always more. This world does not run out of men like Fedor—it produces them, continuously.”
She’s very still, watching me.
“I love you more than I have ever loved anything.” The words break my voice.
“More than I knew I was capable of. You and the children are—” I stop, because the sentence does not have an ending that is sufficient.
“I’m sending you to Chicago. A friend, Sister Mary Patrick, will be there to take care of you. You will pack in the morning.”