Griffin Colson #2
I move like a phantom, slipping deeper into the darkness.
My boots make no sound against the concrete.
The dull lighting casts long shadows, perfect for my approach.
I count five hostiles—two flanking him with rifles, three loading crates onto a truck.
The stench of diesel fuel pierces the air.
That’s when I see them, Stepan and Viktor.
They are standing near an open crate full of weapons, laughing and joking like they didn’t leave Seriph broken and bleeding in an alley less than two days ago.
Jax’s voice crackles through my earpiece, drawing my attention. “Thermals show twelve total, four upstairs by the office windows.”
My grip on my pistol tightens as I flatten into a stack of pallets.
I watch Sokolov light a cigar with unhurried arrogance.
The man exhales smoke like he owns the goddamn world instead of hiding in some rotting building while his empire collapses around him.
Everyone’s in position. The warehouse is surrounded.
My thumb flicks the safety off with a click.
My voice rings out over the comms like a call to battle. “Light it up.”
Gunfire splits the air. Bishop’s team hits them from the east while I advance through the smoke and muzzle flashes from the west. A bullet whips past my ear, close enough to feel the heat.
I don’t flinch. Sokolov’s men scatter like roaches, but Stepan freezes when he locks eyes with me.
Recognition, then raw panic. The little bitch actually tries to run.
I lunge, tackling him into a stack of crates that shatter on impact.
Bones crunch beneath my fists before I realize I’m swinging.
Fury envelopes me in a dark haze I’ve never felt before.
I hit him again and again. The only thing I see is Seriph huddled in a corner, bruised and bloody, scalding water battering her skin after trying to scrub herself free of what he did to her.
Stepan’s face is pulp and my knuckles are split open.
Only Bishop dragging me off by the vest stops me from reducing him to paste.
“Griffin! We need him breathing!”
Somewhere behind us, Viktor groans as he’s cornered near the truck. I wipe blood on my pants as glass shatters. Sokolov flees out a window, alone.
“Heads up, thermal signature bolting northeast toward the docks,” Jax urges.
I’m already moving. I dart across the warehouse, dodging debris. The storm outside is in full force. Lightning cracks across the clouds in jagged streaks. I duck under a row of support beams, following Sokolov’s figure. On comms, Bishop is barking orders to secure the scene. I don’t stop.
My boots pound along the docks as I round a corner to see Sokolov sprinting down to the water’s edge toward the boats.
I drive myself faster, a predator in pursuit of its prey.
I won’t get another chance like this. The rain pours down in sheets, plastering my shirt to my body.
I barely notice the chill as I chase him past warehouses and shipping containers.
My lungs burn and energy surges through me like electricity.
I’m closing the distance. A few more yards, a few more feet.
Yuri erupts from the darkness and tackles me sideways.
The impact knocks the breath out of my lungs as we crash into the wet pavement.
His meaty hands reach for my throat but I twist, driving a knee into his ribs with a sickening crack.
He roars in pain and lurches back enough for me to get my pistol shoved under the bastard’s chin.
“You held her down,” I snarl, blood streaking my face. My voice is deadly, laced with the white hot wrath.
I hear Jax yell through the earpiece. “Grim! Sokolov’s reaching a speedboat!”
Yuri smirks. “She fought harder than you.”
The gunshot echoes across the docks. I push Yuri’s dead weight off of me and vault to my feet. I take off at a run, boots slapping against the wet ground. My breath comes fast and ragged. Sokolov is getting away.
“Where are you? The warehouse is clear.” Bishop’s voice breaks through the static.
“Docks! Sokolov’s in a speedboat.” I barrel down the pier.
Sokolov cuts across the water, his dark figure at the wheel.
The engine roars as the boat disappears, a ghost among the waves.
I skid to a halt, cursing in three languages.
Fuck! I can’t jump for the boat. It’s gone.
All I have left is a blinding rage. I stand there for a long moment, staring at where he disappeared into the horizon.
My chest is heaving, rain streaming down my face like the sky itself is punishing me for this.
A hand clamps down on my shoulder, Bishop breathing heavy. “We got Stepan and Viktor,” he says gruffly. “They’ll talk. And wherever Sokolov runs?” He squeezes my shoulder once like a promise. “We’ll find him.”
I don’t answer him, watching black water swallow what’s left of my revenge.
The drive to the cabin is torture. I stare straight ahead at the road as lightning illuminates the rolling mountains.
Every mile I put between me and Sokolov is another jagged mark against my soul.
The promise I made slips further and further away.
I’m wired, unspent energy leaving me restless and on edge.
I’m too agitated, too angry. Not at Sokolov, but at myself for letting the son of a bitch get away.
How do I look into her ocean eyes and tell her that I fucking lost?