Chapter 4
Max
Nika is nothing like what I anticipated.
The brief video she sent her father didn’t do her justice. In person, she’s poised, lethal, and the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. She moves like a jaguar, all smooth lines and quiet strength.
Does that level of power and skill lure me in? Of course. Regardless, my mission remains the same. Return to the Pakhan with his daughter in tow. And if I end up killing her in “self-defense” before I can deliver the asset? Well, Roman will understand, right?
Wrong.
He’d probably chop me into a thousand pieces if he knew I was even entertaining the idea of murdering his daughter. Still, that knowledge does little to quell my desire for retribution.
I hit the door at the bottom of the stairs and exit onto the sidewalk. The rain has slackened, and pedestrians start to emerge from nearby buildings like wool-covered flowers.
Seattle natives, accustomed to the constant rain and dressed accordingly.
The sidewalk reflects neon signs in smears of yellow, blue, and green, the shades bleeding together on wet concrete.
I cut left, then right, putting corners between myself and the garage. Nika will follow me. She wouldn’t plot for years and destroy lives to obtain the locket only to give up now.
I need distance and time to think.
Or maybe I just need a high position and a clear sight line. Her white hair would stand out in a crowd. One good shot, and I could disappear into the night. Be home by noon tomorrow.
Roman’s order replays in my mind. “Bring her back to me. Alive.”
Could I blatantly disobey the Pakhan to satisfy my own thirst for vengeance?
The question remains unanswered as I continue my retreat.
Traffic sloshes past. Headlights sweep across storefronts decked out in Christmas decor. Red, green, and silver lights hang on every eave to combat the gloomy near-winter weather.
A few holiday decorations won’t chase away my foul mood.
I wipe my neck, unsure if the wetness trickling down is rain or blood. Time to change my clothes.
Two blocks down, I find a narrow alley. Not the kind that smells like piss, but the type kept clear so service staff can show up to work without walking through lobbies filled with customers.
I duck between buildings, my boots splashing through standing puddles of water.
About fifteen feet in, I spot two guys huddling against the brick wall. One’s swathed in a soaked blanket. The other one guards a shopping cart full of wet cardboard. Addicts, maybe.
They perk up as I approach.
Blanket Guy’s fingers dart to his pocket, then still when he gets a better read on me. He raises his palms to show they’re empty and drifts deeper into the alley.
People who live outside of society’s good graces learn to recognize signs that others miss.
The subtle signals of monsters who wear human skin.
My lips peel from my teeth in a lethal smile that promises violence. Both guys take off without a word.
Once they vanish from view, I open my bag.
Inside, I packed everything I require, including extra clothing. I retrieve a charcoal gray button-down shirt that remains wrinkle-free because I roll my clothes.
I learned that helpful tip from Vanya Orlov, the man who can charm his way into or out of almost any situation. He knows how to blend in better than the rest of us.
After stripping off my soaked, bloody shirt, I shove it into a plastic grocery sack and cram the whole thing in my bag.
I’m almost finished dressing when three twentysomething women in skimpy, night-out attire stroll into the alleyway.
They laugh while passing around a shopping bag overflowing with tissue paper and red and gold ornaments. One with coal black hair in a high ponytail does a double take, her heavily lined eyes widening. She nudges her friend and stage-whispers. “Helen, check him out.”
They all glance over.
Unfazed, I smooth my shirt and zip up my pants.
“Oh my god.” Helen whistles like I’m not standing mere feet away. “Are you Superman? Like, did you just change in an alley?” She combs her manicured fingers through brown curls.
I pull out a suit jacket. “Something like that.”
“Hot damn.” The third woman has long blond hair and legs that go on for days. She murmurs the words in a half-awed, half-hungry way, her green eyes pinned on my chest.
Her shopping bag tilts. One of the ornaments tumbles out and rolls toward me.
I bend down, grab the shiny gold sphere, and offer it to Blondie. “Happy holidays.”
She bites her lip before tentatively reaching out. When our fingers brush, she jolts at the contact. “Thanks.”
I grimace. “You’re welcome.”
They all grin. Blondie even giggles, swaying like she’s sucked down one too many Cosmopolitans.
Any other time, I’d seize this opportunity and take at least one of these women to a hotel to let off some steam.
Tonight, I merely nod, zip up my bag, and ease back into the flow of foot traffic.
Behind me, the women dissolve into whispers and laughter.
As much as I’d love a good orgasm or three, I don’t have the time. My life has been a mission of self-flagellation ever since I figured out what I was. What I’d always be.
I can’t fix what’s broken. Can’t undo the damage or go back in time. That’s why I allow my job to consume my life.
In this line of work, you can either be the horror in the world or let it consume you.
I choose the former. I live for the next target. The next assignment. The next moment I serve a useful purpose by being exactly what I am.
A weapon.
Up ahead, a hotel entrance catches my eye. Glass doors open to the elements, bright lights spilling onto an awning-protected red carpet.
Couples, groups, and a few singles in cocktail attire file in.
A banner stretches overhead, flapping in the wind.
Stein and Frank Foundation Annual Charity Auction & Gala
Perfect.
I pull out the simple black clip-on tie I keep for exactly this kind of situation. By the time I reach the red carpet, I fit right in.
In the lobby—a maelstrom of warmth and noise—at least a hundred people mill about, checking coats, greeting each other, and advancing toward the ballroom. The body heat has me longing to remove my jacket and roll up my sleeves.
Glittering chandeliers and a pristine marble white floor chase away the gloomy night.
Bored-looking teenagers staff a reception desk at the far end built from heavy wood.
Garlands wind around floor-to-ceiling columns.
Wreaths the size of tractor tires hang on walls.
Centerpieces rise from tables in explosions of red, gold, and white.
Santa and his elves line the perimeter, smiling and waving people over to the event space. A registration desk sits to the left, staffed by a woman in a blue blazer who’s checking names against a tablet.
As people shuffle in, I scan the crowd behind me, searching for white hair. A tactical jacket. Anything that indicates Nika’s caught up.
No sign of her yet.
Maneuvering through the throng, I head toward the event registration desk between the costumed ushers. I position myself near an older couple, a younger man, and a woman, all of them dressed to impress. They’re loud, talking over each other, and laughing at a comment one of them made.
The matriarch addresses the blazered woman with the tablet. “The rest of our group is coming soon. He’s just parking the car.” She gestures toward the door. “We’re the Edwards party.”
They’re probably a major donor with a reserved table and guests drifting in and out all night.
As I wait, the crowd shifts and flows around me. I keep my expression neutral and my body language open, like I’m waiting for someone. Like I belong.
Minutes tick by, and uneasiness creeps over me. She should have arrived by now.
Did she lose me? Doubtful. She’s too good for that. Did she abandon the chase? Possibly. She could’ve evaluated the risk or exposure as too high.
Or maybe she’s lurking outside, ready to ambush me the moment I exit.
Another fifteen minutes elapse as I scan my surroundings while trying not to think of a hot meal and a warm bed.
Finally, I spot her tucking herself behind a middle-aged couple coming in from the cold.
In place of the tactical gear, she’s donned a sleek black cocktail dress with a high slit that shows off one long leg. The neutral stockings do little to hide her pale skin. Shiny red stilettos add a few inches to her height. Her white hair’s pinned up in an elegant twist.
She slinks through the lobby, every bit the predator.
Most people wouldn’t notice. Most men wouldn’t see past the legs, the dress, the hair.
Unlike me, who sees everything.
Despite—or perhaps because of—the danger she exudes, she’s absolutely stunning.
Nika projects the kind of elegance and grace that halts conversations, that inspires normal people to spare her a second glance.
She’s a masterpiece in an art exhibit, and she knows how to use that to her advantage. The dress isn’t just clothing. It’s a distraction, a tool meant to rearrange the playing field. This woman didn’t just follow me. She came prepared.
Lethal and adaptable.
Who the fuck is Anika Kozlov?
Roman’s pampered daughter, presumed dead for a decade and a half, has returned not as a traumatized victim but as an assassin. A hunter. Someone who can silently hop across car hoods and put a knife to my throat before I even register her presence.
Who raised her? Who molded a nine-year-old girl into a weapon?
As Nika scans the crowd, I don’t try to hide. I just watch.
Her gaze sweeps past me, then backtracks.
Our eyes lock.
She’s fifty feet away, hovering just inside the entrance with mist glistening on her shoulders.
I rake my eyes down her throat, shoulder, and the swell of her breasts under the dress. Then lower, along the slit that reveals a lengthy expanse of leg. All the way down to those delectable red heels.
My perusal conveys a silent message.
I see you. I know what you’re doing. And it won’t work on me.
Except that’s not entirely true.
My body responds against my will. Muscles coil low in my gut, and the spreading warmth disrupts the cold calculation in my head.
She’s dangerous and beautiful. I want to pin her against the lobby wall, wrap my hand around her throat, and teach her just what it means to be prey. I could pull her into some empty hallway—
No.
I shove that thought in the same place I store everything else that’s inconvenient, weak, or human.
Her eyes narrow, and she tilts her chin up. Her expression shifts, not with surprise but acknowledgment. Like she feels the magnetism too.
An unwanted current sizzles between us.
I gift her a smile void of the fake charm I used on the women in the alley. A predator’s smile. A challenge. Then I stride up to the registration desk.
The woman in the blazer peers up as I approach. “Good evening. Name, please?”
“Edwards.” I glance over her shoulder as if searching for the older woman from before.
The blazered woman scrolls her tablet. “First name?”
“Mick.”
Apparently, she finds something close enough. “Of course. Welcome, Mr. Edwards. The ballroom is straight through those doors. Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you.”
I slap the name tag she offers me onto my jacket and glide past the desk.
Just before I reach the ballroom doors, I smirk at Nika.
You want the locket? Come and get it.