1. Rowan #5
The bullet catches him dead in the chest. I see the impact ripple through him, his body losing all momentum at once.
His raised gun dips, spine arching as though some invisible hook has yanked him backward.
Then he drops hard to the asphalt, collapsing in a graceless heap that skids half a foot on the road before going still.
The second man spins toward me. His gun comes around in a vicious arc, searching for the new threat.
But I am already shifting, bringing my own weapon back in line.
Pain tears through my side, slowing me down.
The world narrows to the dark hole of his barrel and the terrible knowledge that I may be half a second too slow.
A muzzle flash blooms close by, though not his.
Ivan’s.
For one frozen instant, the second man’s face is lit in profile, surprise and widening eyes staring back at me for half a second.
Then the bullet takes him down and the expression disappears into collapse.
He folds almost elegantly, knees giving first, weapon tumbling from his grip in a metallic clatter before the rest of him follows.
The road goes still after that. Clutching my side, my eyes sweep the barrier, the ditch beyond it, the black shapes of trees and brush further down the embankment. I look for movement and the glint of another gun, for the wrong kind of silhouette breaking through the trees. But there is nothing.
Which does not mean we are safe. It only solidifies that whoever planned this either sent two men to confirm the kill after the initial crash was supposed to kill us or pulled the rest back the second the scene didn’t pan out according to plan.
Either way, it reeks of preparation. Someone knew our route.
Ivan is turned toward me now, his shoulders squared. Blood runs from a cut at his temple, disappearing into the collar of his coat. His breathing looks steady from here. There is no visible panic in him, only that same cold, severe focus he carried out of Malyshko’s estate.
For one long moment, we just look at each other across the road.
I keep my gun in one hand and move toward the bodies.
Squatting, I dig through the first man’s pockets, finding a burner phone, a knife strapped inside the lining of his coat, loose cash, and no wallet.
There is no identification that tells me who he was beyond the obvious fact that someone hired him to kill us.
I move to the second man, feeling Ivan hovering close by.
He’s twisted onto his side where Ivan’s shot dropped him, one arm trapped under his torso. Blood has pooled beneath his shoulder and is already turning almost black in the cold. I pat down the outer pockets first, finding another burner and blade.
Then I move to inside the coat lining and feel it. A stiffness where fabric should hang flat. Whatever it is, it’s hidden inside the seam like something meant to be carried close and go unnoticed. I hook two fingers into the frayed edge of the lining and pull at it.
A folded packet comes free. For half a second, that surprises me more than the ambush. Men like this don’t carry hard copies unless there’s a reason. They’re too easy to lose during an ambush, too easy to trace if caught.
Shoving my gun back into the holster at my hip, I flip the folder open.
The pages are creased from how it was being transported, the corners faintly dampened by blood. Inside are typed notes and route logs, things typical of surveillance details. I register all of that in the first quick sweep, my brain already categorizing what I’m seeing.
For one wild second, I think it’s Ivan’s file.
Of course I do. Who else would be worth prepping with this level of an ambush for? My eyes skim the first page, expecting to see details about his routines and known safehouses, maybe even the names of his drivers.
Instead, what I find printed across the top of the page is a name that nearly stops my heart.
Sofia Kuznetsov.
Everything inside me goes still immediately.
I stare at it as though force of will alone might rearrange the letters into something else. Some other Sofia, some decoy file planted to mislead whoever found it. But the rest of the page continues with what I can no longer deny.
Her age, the alias she is currently living under, a travel history log filled with information too accurate to be fabricated. The educational institution she is currently studying at that should not have any record that she is even attending.
My hand tightens on the packet until the paper crinkles.
None of this should exist on paper. Not anywhere outside Ivan’s private vault.
She has been hidden for eleven years, every trace of her scrubbed from official databases.
Ivan built that invisibility personally after what happened to her parents.
He trusted almost no one with the full story.
I know only pieces of it because I helped oversee some parts when it was absolutely necessary to do so.
I turn toward Ivan then, finding him leaning against the SUV. My eyes trace down to where he has one hand pressed to his abdomen. Dark red spreads between his fingers.
He looks at me right when his knees buckle.