Griffin Colson
MOVING THE HEATING pad to the bedroom, I put her to bed and place a bottle of water and the ibuprofen on the bedside table.
On my way to the bathroom to get ready to join her, I remember my phone.
I pull it out of my pocket half expecting Jax’s usual smartassery, but the text notification isn’t from him. It’s from Bishop. Fuck.
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Bishop: Sokolov made contact with one of his safe houses near the border You in?
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For the first time ever, I hesitate. My thumb hovering over the screen for a long moment before I type back.
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Me: Give me 45 minutes send me the coordinates
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I pocket the phone and stare at my reflection.
My jaw tight, my storm-gray eyes shadowed.
I know what’s coming; blood, ruthlessness, that old familiar emptiness creeping back in.
But this time? I have something worth coming home to.
This causes two different reactions in me.
One is familiar but heightened in a way it never was before, a fierce determination to get the job done and come back breathing.
The other? Fear. I’ve never been afraid that I wouldn’t come back alive.
But the idea of leaving her to face this shit alone terrifies me.
I don’t linger on it. I go to the closet and grab my go bag. Checking my equipment and weapons with mechanical precision. Something unfamiliar tugs at me. I pause long enough to scribble a note on the back of a receipt from my wallet. My handwriting is crap but legible.
Had to run. Be back soon.
-G
I leave it pinned under her phone on the nightstand, then press my lips to her bare shoulder right where the lines of those feathered wings begin.
I pause at the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing in the moonlight.
The door clicks shut behind me like the safety locking into place.
I climb into my jeep, tossing the duffel into the passenger seat. The second I get it started, my phone buzzes again. This time it is Jax.
“Yeah?”
“You sound like a man who got his balls handed to him by five feet of stubborn witch.” I can hear the amusement in his voice.
“You call to psychoanalyze me or you got intel?” I respond with my own reluctant amusement because he’s right. She does in fact have a firm hold on my balls. And I’m not mad about it.
“Both,” he says cheerfully. “But seriously, coordinates pinged. Sokolov’s holed up in that old hunting lodge off Route 17. Bishop’s already rolling with four guys. You sure you wanna do this tonight? After everything with Seriph today?”
My grip on the wheel tightens. The answer is simple, always has been. “He threatened her.” My voice is lethally quiet. “So yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure.”
“Copy that. I’ll loop you into Bishop’s comms. And Griff?” All humor is gone now. “Don’t do anything stupid enough to make me explain to your woman why you didn’t come home.”
I don’t dignify that with a response, ending the call and gunning the engine. The jeep tears through backroads like it’s chasing vengeance, headlights cutting through trees as my phone pings with coordinates and schematics from Jax. My hands already miss the feel of something softer.
I kill the lights and park in a clearing with enough distance away that the sound of the engine won’t be heard.
The hunting lodge is a relic of a bygone era, all faded stone and peeling paint.
The surrounding area is dark and quiet, save for the single floodlight over the main door.
I climb out into the night, boots landing silently in the long grass.
Scanning the grounds for weak points, I cross to the corner of the building.
A low murmur of voices drifts through an open window.
I creep around, crouching in the shadows by the sill.
It sounds like there’s a group of them inside, one of them is definitely Sokolov—that cold smug Russian accent is easy to make out.
The other voices sound local. There’s snippets of conversation about a shipment.
I wait in the darkness, patience from years of hunting kicks in causing me to go almost motionless as I listen.
It’s an old habit, one that makes it easy to wait people out without giving anything away.
My fingers curl around the knife strapped to my thigh, to feel the weight of it.
“Transfer is set for midnight. Once it clears, you burn the shop, kill the woman.” Sokolov’s voice slithers through the cracked window. “No loose ends.”
My pulse kicks up, breathing steady. Trying to keep my cool after the son of a bitch threatens Seriph, I count the exits in my head. Two visible from this angle, probably another out back near where Bishop’s team should be arriving soon.
“And if Colson shows up?” A local laughs nervously.
Nice to know I scare the fuckwit.
“Then we give him what he came for,” Sokolov replies calmly, followed by the metallic click of a safety being flipped.
I press the earpiece as Jax’s voice filters through. “Thermal shows four hostels inside. Reaper is ten minutes out. You good?”
“Movin’ now.”
“Grim, wait for Reaper. Don’t go in—”
I ignore him, moving around the back of the building into the shadows.
No lights, no windows back here. It’s old, wood and stone crumbling together in places, but the door looks newer.
I pause with my hand on the knob, testing it cautiously.
It’s locked and heavy but not reinforced.
If I break it down, it would be too loud.
Needing something quieter, I draw a slender set of lockpicks out of my pocket.
The thin metal glints faintly in the moonlight as I make short work of the lock.
There’s a soft click, then silence. I pause, listening for any sounds from the other side.
The door creaks open enough for me to slip inside.
I continue to ignore Jax’s warnings crackling through the earpiece.
The air smells stale and dusty with a faint trace of mildew.
The floorboards groan faintly as I move down the narrow hallway.
Voices grow louder from the main room up ahead.
My knife is out now, low at my side as I press my back into the wall.
I can see shadows moving under the doorframe. Three figures, maybe four.
Then Sokolov’s voice cuts through again. This time in Russian, he’s on the phone. “No witnesses. The woman and her shop vanish by morning.” He pauses as the person on the other end replies. “Let him watch.”
My blood turns into a blazing inferno, my grip on the knife turns my knuckles white.
Bishop’s team isn’t in position yet. A compromise now means risking Seriph.
I force myself to relax and slide toward the back right as a floorboard squeaks underfoot.
I freeze. The conversation pauses in the other room. Fuck.
Then a local. “Did you hear that?”
I don’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, I whirl and drive the knife hilt deep into the throat of the man who rounds the corner, silencing him before he can call out. He crumples soundlessly, but the thud of his body hitting the wood echoes too loudly.
“Check that,” Sokolov orders.
Boots scuff toward the hallway as I yank the blade free and drag the corpse into a shadowed alcove.
I press flat against the wall beside a moth eaten deer head as another armed man steps into view, pistol sweeping blindly.
I move, one hand snatching the man’s wrist, twisting until bone cracks and the gun clatters to the floor.
My other arm locks around his throat, cutting off any cry as I drag him back into the room where I stashed his comrade.
The struggle lasts about four seconds before a sharp twist and a sick crack.
His head falls at an odd angle and his body goes limp.
I lower him silently then scoop up the fallen pistol.
Jax hisses in my earpiece. “Reaper's ETA three minutes. You got company incoming. Thermal shows two more tangos moving toward your position from the east wall.”
I push the stolen pistol into my waistband and draw my own from its holster, thumbing off the safety with a click. “Tell him to hurry.”
I step over both bodies into the hall and kick the door open. It slams with a thunderous crash, wood splintering. Three heads snap toward me. Sokolov is mid-sip from a crystal glass, his two remaining guards reaching for their weapons. I don’t give them the chance.
I put two rounds center mass into the first guard. The second gets a bullet through the kneecap before he can clear his holster, then another between his eyes when he hits the ground.
“Evenin’, fuckface.”
Sokolov hasn’t moved. Watching with cold eyes, swirling his drink like we’re at a goddamn dinner party. “Ah, Mr. Colson.” His Russian accent thick with mockery. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t—”
I cross the room and smash my pistol across his jaw—glass shatters as blood sprays on the faded wallpaper. I kick his chair over, planting a boot on his throat while pressing the barrel to his forehead. A wet laugh bubbles out of his bleeding mouth.
“He’s stalling! Thermal shows four hostels closing fast on your six!” Jax crackles urgently.
I shift enough weight on his windpipe to make him wheeze. “Tell your men to stand down,” I growl, “or I start carvin’ pieces off of you while they watch.”
He rasps something in Russian too fast for me to catch, but the sudden scramble of boots outside tells me everything I need to know.
“Reaper’s thirty seconds out. Don’t do anything stupid—”
I fire twice through the wall, chest high, pained shouts answer as unseen bodies hit the floor. “Too late,” I mutter.
Sokolov spits a glob of crimson onto my boot and croaks, “She’s going to taste sweet, your little witch.”
I feel my trigger finger twitch, but Seriphina’s face flashes through my mind.
Her smile, soft and safe, everything I never let myself have.
That split second is all it takes, Sokolov reaches up, grabs the pistol, twisting it away.
It fires wildly, ricocheting. Sokolov rolls away, coughing while he scrabbles for the fallen gun.
I kick it to the side and it slides across the floor, before driving my knee into Sokolov’s midsection.
It connects with a sickening crunch. His ribs give way under the force and he chokes on air.
Clawing at my thighs for purchase when—.
BANG.
Something slams into my side, hard enough to drive me sideways and off Sokolov’s crumpled form.
The acrid smell of gunsmoke fills my lungs as I sway, disoriented.
I try to shove down the haze closing in around me as Sokolov’s voice echoes through the buzzing in my skull.
I stagger to my feet, fighting the nausea in the back of my throat.
Sokolov laughs, bloodied lips and wide eyes.
I grit my teeth and take a step forward—.
BANG.
Another bullet punches through my shoulder like a molten brand. I pitch forward, teeth gritted against an involuntary hiss as I clamp a hand over the bleeding. Screaming and shouting comes from the front of the lodge. Furniture crashes. The deafening roar of gunfire. Bishop.
Two of Sokolov’s men drag him up by his elbows and shuffle him out the back door.
His cold snake eyes lock on me in a triumphant promise.
Then the bastard is gone, vanishing into the night.
Bishop crashes through the entryway seconds later, flanked by two mercs, guns sweeping the wreckage.
His gaze lands on me slumped against the wall, blood soaking through my clothes.
He swears violently, “Jesus Christ, Colson.”
“Took you long enough,” I cough wetly and press harder against my side, tipping my head back against the wall with a thud.
Jax’s voice cracks frantically through the earpiece but it sounds distant, like he’s underwater. One last coherent thought permeates before darkness consumes me: Seriphina’s gonna be disappointed that I didn’t wake her up to say goodbye.