Chapter 24
KIARA
Two fucking weeks it has taken me to turn the little Lazarus-shaped breadcrumbs into a trusted lead with enough information to send me racing toward Nevada in my private jet, and as I sit here, waiting to land, I can’t stop going over what I’d found.
It was a needle in a haystack, and after long days of research, I came to the conclusion that it was Needles and Spikezilla’s newfound dominance that was clearly the factor in helping me figure it out. Don’t ask me how, because I have no damn idea. All I know is that it’s set in stone.
Those cacti are my new lucky stars, and there’s no doubt about it.
The lead didn’t come from any of the information found in the files. It wasn’t in the threat assessments, the heavily redacted psychological profiles, or the dramatic speculation about potential black-market buyers. And believe me, I looked into every last one of them.
No, the single little clue came from nothing more than a simple power grid report.
Every city Lazarus was rumored to have passed through had one thing in common: a brief, unexplained power surge nearby. Not a blackout. Not enough to draw attention. Just eleven minutes of abnormal activity. Then it vanished.
Most analysts would’ve ignored it. But the type of equipment he’s running needs power. A lot of it. You don’t move high-tech gear around without it leaving a mark somewhere.
Ghosts don’t leave fingerprints, but they do leave footprints on the grid.
I’d overlaid the last three confirmed movements with the power data.
Three spikes. Three cities. All within a tight one-mile radius of where Lazarus had last been rumored to surface.
From there, I followed the crumbs, giving me the exact location of his last thirty movements.
It told me exactly what I needed to know: Lazarus is a man of habit.
He likes comfort and familiarity, and because of that, he has perfectly rotated through the same six locations, each one perfectly aligned, and never stepping out of routine. And the next move is due tonight.
If he follows his regular rotation, which I know he will, the next move will put him directly in a remote industrial area in Nevada. The kind of place swarming with abandoned warehouses and forgotten rail lines. Sparse population with minimal surveillance. Easy to control. Easy to disappear from.
Figuring out exactly which warehouse he utilizes is the problem. But when it’s such a remote location, I’m willing to bet the convoy of blacked-out SUVs kicking up a cloud of dust behind them might be a little clue.
The jet touches down on a private strip in Nevada, and before I know it, I’m unloading all my weapons into the back of my rental car and racing through the desert.
The drive is long and silent, the Nevada desert swallowing the sound of my engine as the last of the daylight disappears, dropping me into a type of darkness I hadn’t anticipated.
In LA, it’s never truly dark. There’s always some form of light streaming through the windows.
It’s everywhere—streetlamps, neighboring homes, cars—but out here in the desert, you’re truly alone.
By the time I reach the industrial area, the world feels stripped down to nothing but gravel, rusted metal, and cold air. The warehouse sits alone against the darkness, a single block of corrugated steel surrounded by overgrown dead weeds, cracked concrete, and twelve-foot electric fences.
There are no neighboring buildings, no passing traffic, and no witnesses. Exactly the kind of place someone like Lazarus needs.
Getting close isn’t an option with this one.
The file was clear, and nothing more than an active warning for any contractor who took on the job. He comes fully equipped with rotating security, ex-special forces with military-grade training.
I might be good at what I do, but I’m not moronic, and my ego knows exactly when it’s time to take a backseat.
If I go inside that warehouse, I don’t only lose the advantage, I’ll be outnumbered and easily lose my life.
There’s no question about it. So, I do the only thing I can do in this situation and take a page out of Raiden’s book.
Distance. Elevation. Patience.
I’m gonna snipe that motherfucker’s ass right into a shallow grave.
And unfortunately for my exceptional morals, I’m going to have to film it.
Considering the type of operation Lazarus is running, even if I were to take out every last guard in the warehouse, an alarm would be triggered, and before I could even send confirmation of his death, the body would be gone.
And if I intend on getting paid, I’m going to need all the proof I can get.
After doing a thorough check of the surroundings, I position myself on a low ridge overlooking the warehouse, settling into the gravel before setting up my rifle.
The air is dry, wind barely a factor tonight.
I check the scope, calibrate for distance, and slow my breathing until the world fades away, leaving nothing but me, the scope, and the warehouse.
I scoff. Raiden would be so proud. This is a setup even he would envy.
Though I doubt I’ll ever get the chance to tell him about it.
I’m sure he’ll hear about it through the grapevine and always wonder if it was me.
But it’s not the same as getting to tell him myself, getting to brag about being the best sharpshooter in the country, just to watch as he attempts to keep a straight face, not wanting to ruin my moment by throwing down some kind of challenge.
I set up my camera, and despite there being no sign of Lazarus yet, I hit record and settle in for what I can only assume will be a late night.
As expected, it’s close to midnight when headlights appear in the distance—two small beams cutting across the desert before growing larger and brighter. I watch him through my scope, tracking his every movement.
It’s a blacked-out SUV with dark tint, making it impossible to see inside, and I keep my rifle trained on the driver, watching and waiting for any shot I can take to finish this.
The SUV rolls up the dirt road without hesitation, gravel crunching under its tires and sending up plumes of dust behind it, only pausing as it reaches the twelve-foot security fences.
The gates screech open just enough for the SUV to sneak inside, and before they’ve even finished opening all the way, they’re closed again.
My position gives me the perfect view over the fencing, and now that they’ve barricaded themselves inside, it’s nothing but a hunting party, picking them off one by one until I have Lazarus under my scope.
I don’t love collateral damage. I never have. I prefer clean hits—one target, one pull of the trigger, and the job is done. But in certain cases, collateral can’t be helped. Survival will always win for me. It’s my optimal goal, even if it means walking away before completing the job.
The desert cools fast, leaving the chill to seep into my forearms and shoulders as I hold steady. The SUV continues right up to the main entrance of the warehouse and heads straight inside, leaving me blind.
An hour passes, and the warehouse remains still, almost as though it’s taunting me, and despite the way my muscles burn, I don’t move an inch, determined to see this through.
I constantly search each gap between the corrugated steel panels, looking for any sign of movement inside.
I don’t know how Raiden does this. Well, I do. He has the patience of a saint, while I have the patience of a leaky asshole experiencing the worst case of explosive diarrhea it’s ever experienced. But I hold tight, not willing to screw this up.
And then I see it—the smallest movement inside a window.
A shadow stretches so subtly across the overgrown weeds surrounding the warehouse, distorting on the cold ground.
My heart launches into full attack mode, racing like I’d just shot myself up with a vial of pure adrenaline, as I adjust the scope carefully, tightening the focus on the window.
Showtime.
A figure fills the scope—tall, broad shoulders, with a rifle raised, aimed straight at me.
Everything stops, and for a split second, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing. My brows draw together, heart pounding hard against my ribs as instinct overrides confusion. I lock in tighter, adjust my grip, and settle my finger against the trigger with practiced balance.
If he’s seen me, then hesitation gets me killed, but when he shifts slightly, adjusting his stance just a fraction of an inch, his movement sends a flood of moonlight cutting across his jaw.
It’s enough to catch the angle of his shoulders—and the exact way he rolls his neck before settling into a shot.
My stomach drops, because I’ve seen that exact movement before. I’ve memorized it, learned it, gotten hot and heavy at the very thought of it.
Raiden.
There’s no fucking way.
The man in my scope comes into perfect focus, and everything inside me falls out of alignment.
My stance, my hold on my rifle, my elbows braced against the cold Nevada ground, and I pull back just enough to clear my vision.
My heart slams so violently it feels like it might crack my ribs from the inside, my brain insisting that I’m seeing things, that my two weeks of sleepless nights have finally caught up to me, that I’m going crazy.
But there’s no doubt here. No maybes. No tricks of light. It’s him.
Raiden Kane: the Iron Viper, and he has me in his sights.
There’s no panic in his posture like mine, but I’m not surprised. He’s steady. Controlled. Lined up with precision, just as he has always been.
Then in a split second, he pulls the trigger.
The shot tears through the night like a lightning strike splitting bone, the crack echoing across the open desert. The bullet slices past my position close enough that I feel the air move against my cheek, and I suck in a breath, my whole world flashing before my eyes.
What the hell just happened?
I flinch, an ugliness spreading through my chest. Horror.
Unease. Betrayal. But before I can put the words together to even begin to understand what I’m feeling, another gunshot detonates behind me, and gravel explodes near my elbow as a powerful round slams into the ridge, spraying stone and dirt into my face.
Understanding hits hard and cold.
Raiden doesn’t miss. He doesn’t go wide. He doesn’t fuck up. And that slight shift he took . . . fuck. He wasn’t shooting at me. He was shooting at whoever the hell had already lined up on me.
Return fire rips across the ridge in sharp succession, controlled bursts from at least two positions I never clocked.
My pulse spikes into something feral as I roll hard to the side, dragging the rifle with me, scrambling toward the shallow dip in the ridge I’d marked earlier as a fallback plan for if things happened to go south.
And right now, there’s no further south than this.
It’s a fucking shitshow.
I’d been so focused on the warehouse. So certain I was the predator. I never even considered someone might already have me in their crosshairs, and as my heart hammers with undeniable fear, I start putting it all together.
The power surges. The perfect forty-eight-hour pattern. The isolated industrial area.
It wasn’t intelligence. It was choreography—a carefully timed dance with only one motive: to take me out.
I wasn’t hired to kill Lazarus. I was brought here to die.
My phone vibrates against my hip, the sharp buzz nearly lost beneath the crack of gunfire tearing through the ridge. Gravel sprays again, a round biting into the dirt where my shoulder had been only seconds earlier.
I don’t hesitate.
Scrambling for my phone, my fingers clumsy as my pulse pounds so hard it’s drowning out any rational thought. I already know who it is. There’s only one person who would be calling me right now.
Finally getting the phone free from my tight pocket, I swipe to answer as another shot snaps through the darkness, a yelp on my lips.
I don’t say a word. Just wait for whatever he’s going to say.
For a split second, there’s only the sound of his breathing, followed by a sharp grunt as he returns fire, making himself bait, solely for the purpose of saving me.
Then his voice cuts through, strained and filled with the type of fear I have never heard from him before. There’s no control here. No practiced detachment. Just raw panic, chaos, and cold, hard fear.
“Run.”
***