2. Danika
DANIKA
The hotel room smells like stale cigarettes and cheap lemon cleaner. The walls are beige, the bedspread is worn, and the carpet has stains I refuse to examine too closely.
And to top it all off, this salad is shit. I told myself not to get it, but when I was tasked with this assignment, I didn't have much time to catch my flight, and then, making my way here, I was hungry.
So now, I'm stabbing at wilted pieces of lettuce and tasting bitter olive oil that I'm sure is borderline bad.
It's all part of the job, though.
This place sits just outside the main area of town, where the workers and transients live, far from the tourist-filled center.
I set my fork down on the small table and reach for my phone, unlocking it with a swipe. The screen glows with his face. A loose end, apparently.
That's all Ivan told me. "Clean it up, Danika."
I don't ask why. I never ask why. Ivan doesn't give orders lightly, and if he thinks this person is a problem, then they're a problem. My job isn't to find out why. It's to make people disappear quietly, without leaving a trail that leads back to the Volkov Bratva.
It's simple, and I like simple.
I pick up my fork again and stab another piece of lettuce. This time I get lucky and get another mealy tomato and a piece of feta cheese that I already know tastes like rubber.
I chew anyway, forcing myself to eat because skipping meals is a rookie mistake. Hunger dulls reflexes, slows reaction time, and I can't afford either.
My gun sits on the table beside my phone, the suppressor already attached. Always within arm's reach, exactly where it should be.
Even in yoga pants and a loose T-shirt, I'm never unarmed. Even scarfing down a quick bite in a shitty hotel room, I'm never off the clock.
I glance around the room again, noting the two windows. I'm on the third floor, but that doesn't mean I haven't checked them three times already. Old habits.
I take another bite and unlock my phone again, scrolling through the intel. I've got the predictable schedule. The address. What time he'll be home and where exactly I am going to strike.
I zoom in on the satellite image of the location. Three entry points. No guards, so it's easy. Also, there's minimal lighting on the street where they live, so it's a gift.
This should take less than an hour.
I set the phone down again and lean back in the chair, cracking my neck. My muscles are tight, the tension coiled in my neck and upper back like normal before a hit.
I should stretch. Do some yoga or something to pass the time so I can hurry up and do what I need to do and get the hell out of this place.
The last time I was in this country... I close my eyes and just like that, the arrogant smile of Victor Ionescu pops into my head.
I exhale sharply through my nose.
Of course he's the first thing my brain conjures when I think about Romania. Not any other time I've been here, or even why I'm here.
I could be thinking about the routes I'm going to take or the clean shot I'll need to make. Even the logistics of getting his hard drive that Ivan wants.
No.
It's Victor fucking Ionescu.
I open my eyes and glare at the ceiling.
He's not even worth the mental space. He's a politician playing at being dangerous, a man who relies on expensive suits and a charming smile to mask the fact that he has no real tactical skill.
He walked into that house in the countryside like he owned it, like his name alone was enough to protect him.
And then he tried to sweet-talk his way out of it, so I stabbed him for it.
I laugh to myself, the sound lightly echoing in the empty room.
He let himself get stabbed. Let me get close enough to slide a knife between his ribs because he was too busy running his mouth to pay attention to my hands. Too confident, arrogant, and egotistical.
He's an amateur pretending to be a player, and the only reason he's still breathing is because I chose to let him live.
I pick up my fork again and stab another piece of lettuce, the prongs hitting the table underneath.
He was out of his depth. Completely. Like he really thought sheer size would be enough to stop me. The way he looked at me, all cool and calculated with his so-called sharp intelligence, as if he could outwit me in a fight.
Please.
I've taken down men twice his size with half the effort.
I've fought highly trained military operatives from five countries in close quarters at one time or another and walked away without a scratch.
Victor Ionescu, for all his tailored suits and political maneuvering, is nothing more than a nuisance.
A distraction.
A complication I don't need.
I chew slowly, forcing myself to focus on the sound of my own breathing. I cannot afford to be distracted by a pretty boy who thinks he's more dangerous than he actually is.
Because that's all he is.
Pretty.
And actually, kind of annoying.
And absolutely, completely out of his league.
I set my fork down and drain the last of my water, the plastic bottle crinkling in my hand.
Just because I'm back here doesn't mean he needs to occupy my thoughts. This is exactly the kind of thinking that gets people killed. Victor is nothing. He's a man who got lucky enough to survive an encounter he had no business being in.
And yet.
I lean forward, my fingers drumming against the table.
He's still alive.
I could have killed him. Should have killed him. The Volkovs would have one less problem to worry about. But I didn't. I let him live, and I've spent the past two weeks trying to figure out why.
Professional courtesy? Unlikely.
Strategic value of some kind? Possibly.
A moment of weakness? Absolutely not.
I suppose it doesn't matter, all these silly thoughts.
One day, Ivan will give the order, and when he does, I'll do what needs to be done.
Until then, I have a job to do.
I'm in Romania to kill this man, I pick up my phone and unlock it, this Bogdan Cristea.
When it's done, I'll get the hell out of Constan?a and Romania.
Come on, Danika. Stay focused.
It's 11:47 p.m. He'll be off soon, and I need to be waiting for him.