Chapter 1
October 2006—Eastern Europe
eine checked her watch as she waited for the target to emerge from the concrete block building. Practical as only Soviet-style architecture could be, nevertheless the crumbling façade gave the impression of faded power, like a once-famous tenor now down on his luck and sucking on throat lozenges in order to save his voice.
She’d wait five minutes longer and then leave if Igor Glushenko didn’t show. There was no sense freezing her ass if her quarry decided to take his time with his mistress. Besides, she wasn’t completely on board with Eric’s instructions. There were other, less intrusive ways to fulfill the contract, and it made her wonder why her boss had chosen her for the job.
The cool air was damp from the recent squall that had just blown through the ancient city, the resultant mist hiding a few of the cars below her as though an unseen hand had intentionally obscured the block for effect. She glanced through the rifle sight once more and made a minor correction.
Ah, the glamorous life of a jet-setting assassin.
Leine inhaled and released her breath slowly, watching the condensation evaporate in the air before her.
And waited.
She didn’t enjoy this part of her work. Leine had fought her impulsive and impatient nature all her life. But the extraordinary self-discipline she’d gained as a result had made her one of the best in her field. The majority of her colleagues went for the expedient solution, never considering the far-reaching implications of their choices, like political fallout and instability. They preferred to leave those problems to the higher ups. Leine thought through every action, treating each job like a chess match she was determined to win. By staying several steps ahead of her competition, she minimized blowback.
But with notoriety came frustration. Although her services were in demand, jobs had become more complicated and she found herself entering a gray area where the result wasn’t necessarily what it seemed. Before, she’d been able to justify her actions without an assassin’s guilt keeping her awake. Yes, she killed for a living, but her targets were the lowest of the low. She used to eliminate criminals who, if allowed to continue, would gladly take down the United States and her allies, or kill innocents in their quest for power.
And now? Now she questioned the direction her boss, Eric, was taking the Agency, whether the motivation for her assignments had more to do with greed.
The hair on her neck prickled her skin and she scanned the surrounding rooftops, making sure she was alone.
Just then, the front door to the building across the street opened. Wearing an expensive leather coat, a heavyset bear of a man emerged, flanked by two armed gunmen. After a brief reconnaissance of the block, they headed for a black SUV parked at the curb. The target was smiling. Clearly, he’d had a good session with his mistress.
Igor Glushenko will die a happy man today.
“Target in sight,” she said into her mic, her voice low.
“Copy that,” came the reply.
Leine dropped her head, the sniper rifle snug against her shoulder, and sighted in for the shot. A woman wearing a long skirt with her shirt unbuttoned to her navel appeared in the doorway, waving what looked like a silk cravat. The target turned and smiled. Leine’s finger rested lightly on the trigger as she tracked Glushenko through the scope.
“Dammit,” she muttered.
“Problem?” her handler, Lou, asked.
“The mistress. I’m going to wait to take the shot.” The fewer witnesses, the better.
“Your call,” Lou answered.
Glushenko’s grin could only be described as licentious as he grabbed the woman around the waist with one arm and pawed at her breasts with his free hand. The woman’s giggles were loud enough to reach Leine’s ears.
C’mon, already. Go back inside, but leave Glushenko.
She’d been tempted to call off the job. Nothing had felt right from the start. From Eric’s unusual request that she set up on a rooftop across the street from where the Russian’s mistress lived—Leine preferred to work in a less conventional manner to keep the target’s security off guard—to the directive to use a rifle to take Glushenko out. Normally weapons were the operative’s choice.
Glushenko’s security detail, two tall, muscle-bound men wearing tailored black suits and carrying machine guns, looked on with wide grins. The driver’s door of the SUV opened and a man wearing expensive-looking aviator sunglasses emerged, his annoyance apparent by his deep frown. He gestured to one of Glushenko’s security guards, who nudged the other, nodding toward the two lovebirds.
While the guard attempted to speed their farewell, the driver turned and scanned the rooftops. He appeared to hesitate near the spot Leine had set up and she froze. She was certain he couldn’t see her, but the earlier unease she’d been feeling had her spooked. He cocked his head to the side like a golden retriever being told something it didn’t understand, then raised his hand and said something into his sleeve. A second later he started toward the front door of the building below her. She keyed the mic, sending a signal to both Lou and Carlos that she needed a diversion, and quickly scanned the neighboring rooftops again.
As though on cue, Carlos rounded the corner with his head down, bouncing along with his iPod, earbud wires sprouting like anemic spaghetti from his ears. Immediately on point, Glushenko’s men reached for their weapons.
Mid-street, the driver turned to assess the intruder. As Carlos came closer, the guards stepped in front of him, barring his way. Carlos looked up, surprise on his face, working the I-didn’t-see-you angle. One of Glushenko’s men pushed him and barked an order. The driver said something into his sleeve again, then turned and headed toward the group on the sidewalk.
Leine slid backward, taking the rifle with her. When she was far enough away that she could stand and not be seen from the street, she closed the lens covers on the scope, collapsed the rifle’s bipod, and broke down the gun so it would fit in her duffle bag. She then quietly opened the door to the stairwell and descended.
When she reached the metal door leading outside she removed her ear mic and paused to listen.
Nothing.
She dropped the mic into her bag and opened the door to check for passersby. Not seeing anyone, she stepped into the alley and stopped to shift the duffel bag onto her shoulder.
The round hit the wall centimeters from her head. Bits of concrete sprayed her cheek. Leine dove inside the building as another bullet slammed into the metal door.
Sniper.
She scanned the area, searching for the best exit.
A door banged open at the front of the building, accompanied by the sound of footsteps pounding toward her.
Glushenko’s men.
Heart racing, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted for the stairs, taking two at a time. At the first landing she paused to catch her breath. Four corridors radiated outward from the central staircase, each hallway consisting of a dozen or more apartments.
She continued up the staircase and veered onto floor five, taking the easternmost hallway, far from the sniper’s position. Several recessed doors with apartment numbers stood on either side of the corridor. Two of the ceiling lights had burned out, leaving the area in partial shadow. Cardboard covered a window at the end of the passage, a fast fix-it job to keep out the cold. Footsteps echoed up the staircase as her assailants closed in.
Leine slid the pistol from her holster, screwed on the suppressor, and shot out the remaining lights, plunging the hall into darkness. Letting the duffel bag fall to the floor, she crossed the now-dark hall, moving to a doorway several apartments closer to the window. She dropped to one knee in a modified crouch and pulled up the hood of her jacket. The black material matched her clothes, giving her a semblance of camouflage.
The footsteps stopped at her floor, followed by silence. Leine breathed in slowly and let it out, calming the adrenaline dump. She aimed the gun.
Steady.
Whispers drifted toward her as a shadow fell across the floor near the entrance to the hall, then slid from view. Two gunmen ghosted up the steps, heading for the next level. Seconds later there was a pop and the fifth floor landing grew dark.
Couldn’t be the sniper. Not if he’d set up on an opposing roof. There hadn’t been enough time. And she doubted it was Glushenko’s driver. Someone had to stay back and protect the Russian.
A third gunman?
Leine waited.
A minute passed. And then another.
Then two more.
Still she waited. Motionless. Listening. She lost track of time.
There.
The third gunman shifted position. The sound was barely a whisper. Right side, near the hallway entrance.
It wouldn’t be long.
Minutes later—two? ten?—the murky silhouette of a man’s profile materialized at the end of the hallway as he peered around the corner. Leine tracked his movements, reining in her impatience.
His head swiveled in the gloom as he scanned the hallway, his gaze appearing to linger on the dark shape of the duffel bag. Leine remained still, finger on the trigger, the cramp in her right knee screaming at her to move.
The man eased around the corner, gun leading the way as he hugged the wall. Leine fired two rounds in rapid succession. The man’s head snapped back and hit the wall with a thud, and his body slid to the floor. There was a brief pause, and then shouts and footsteps erupted on the floor above her, the echoes exploding down the stairwell.
Leine sprinted to the bag, picked it up, and raced to the window. She ripped the cardboard away and threw the duffel onto the fire escape before diving through the opening. Shots pinged off the metal railing, and she rolled to one side. She spun around and came up in a crouch, then glanced through the window.
Glushenko’s bodyguards advanced toward her, one on each side of the hall. She emptied her gun into the hallway, and both men dove for cover. She got lucky and hit the larger one in the shoulder. Leine ducked behind the wall to reload. A spray of bullets erupted from their AK-47s, slamming into the concrete next to the window. Ejecting the spent mag, Leine jacked in a full one and waited for a pause in the action. Her back to the wall, she rotated and aimed through the window.
The second man went down, a bullet to the throat. Gun in his left hand, the larger one squeezed off a round, but it went wide. This time, Leine hit center mass and the big guy toppled to the floor. An apartment door cracked open, but quickly closed.
Five minutes later, Leine was in a taxi on her way to the hotel and her rendezvous with Carlos. She leaned her head back on the seat and took long, slow, deep breaths until her heart rate returned to normal.
The sniper in the alley had been waiting for her.
Her hand trembled from the residual adrenaline as she punched Lou’s number into her phone.
“Hey, Lou, checking in.”
“Took you a while,” he answered. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, there was a slight delay, but I’m almost to the hotel.” She eyed the taxi driver, who glanced at her in the rearview mirror and then quickly looked away.
Leine didn’t normally use a spotter, but Carlos had just finished a job in Italy and offered his services when she’d voiced her concerns about the target. He flew in the night before and they discussed the job over dinner. Whereas Carlos was ground support, Lou worked remotely, observing via satellite feed and the ubiquitous security cameras found all over Europe. Having ties to the US government did have its perks.
After a circuitous route designed to throw off even the most persistent tracker, the taxi driver dropped her at the door to the touristy hotel. She went up to her room, using the stairs once she was sure no one waited for her in the lobby. Before entering, she checked the “tell” she placed at the top of the door to see if someone had been inside the room in her absence. It was still intact. Once inside, she added extra security to the door by installing a portable lock.
The half-finished bottle of red wine on the desk beckoned. She poured herself a glass and sat in a chair near the bed.
Not only had there been a sniper covering her exit, but she was certain Glushenko’s driver knew she was on the roof. If she hadn’t stopped to shift the bag to her other shoulder, there was a good possibility she’d be dead. Clearly, she’d been compromised. But by whom?
Fifteen minutes and a glass and a half of wine later, three knocks followed by two more sounded at the door. Leine let Carlos in and secured the locks. He crossed the room, corralling the bottle and a clean glass before sliding the other chair next to hers to sit down. She took her seat as he divvied up the rest of the wine and raised his glass in a toast.
“To your instincts.”
Leine touched her glass to his and took a drink. “You could say that.” She recounted the events of the ambush.
Carlos leaned forward and checked her over. “You’re all right?”
Leine nodded.
“Why didn’t you call for help?”
“No time. I removed the comm.” She sighed, took another drink. “Any ideas?” she asked.
“Could be you pissed someone off.” He stared at the glass in his hand. “Could be Eric.”
“Eric.” Leine frowned. “You think he wants me dead?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s an open secret we’re together.” Carlos grimaced. “Like I told you last night. Things are changing. And not for the better.”
“You said you had proof of what he was doing. Where?”
“Storage locker on the ground floor of my building. The key’s well hidden. Number nine.”
Carlos had been collecting intelligence on the director of the clandestine agency for several months and was close to sending the incriminating evidence to Eric’s superior, Scott Henderson.
“Are you sure you’re not just making assumptions about his involvement?” If their boss wanted her dead because of her association with Carlos, then Carlos’s claims of Eric’s illicit dealings made sense.
Carlos nodded. “Pretty damn sure. I realize what we do is supposed to stay under the radar, but the jobs he’s been taking on the side go way beyond that. Not what I signed up for.” He finished his wine and stood.
Carlos and Leine, along with a select group of others, were considered elite black ops for an organization known simply as the Agency. The name similarity to the Central Intelligence Agency was intentional. A shadow organization of highly skilled assassins tasked with removing targets who threatened the United States or her allies, the organization’s objectives were government sanctioned but strictly on a need-to-know basis. They rarely worked with the CIA or NSA, preferring to operate in a fluid environment that the operatives referred to as the Shadowland. Carlos believed that, along with actual jobs the Agency was legitimately tasked to do, Eric was using the group for illicit and mercenary purposes without their knowledge.
“We’re not terrorists for hire,” Carlos muttered. “Eric needs a refresher on the Mission Statement.”
Leine drained the rest of her wine and set the glass on the nightstand. “Are you close to letting Henderson know?”
“Soon. One more sweep should do it.” By sweep, Carlos meant hacking into Eric’s personal computer to do one last scan of its contents.
“Just be careful to cover your tracks. You know Eric changes up his security settings—you don’t want to be caught in one of his traps.”
“I’ve got it handled. He won’t suspect anything.” Carlos gave her a slow, sexy smile, a shank of dark hair falling across his face. “Hungry?” he asked.
“Not for dinner.”
With a wicked grin, Carlos met her on the bed. She pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips. Lifting her arms, she slid her shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor, then reached behind to unhook her bra. Desire flared in his eyes as Carlos helped remove her pants. Her passion rising, Leine tugged off his long sleeved T-shirt and tossed it aside, pausing long enough to pinch his nipples. Carlos inhaled sharply and slid his hands up her torso to encircle her breasts and return the favor. Searing need shot through her and she groaned. She leaned over and planted kisses along his collar bone, tickling his chest with her hair.
His growing interest obvious, Carlos flipped her onto her back and slid his pants off the rest of the way, freeing his erection. They came together in frenzied yearning, the uncertainty and danger of their lives spurring them on.
It wasn’t long before Leine forgot about Eric and the questions surrounding Glushenko.
Chapter 2
November 2006—Lithuania
lya blew on his hands to keep them warm while they waited for the general to inspect the merchandise. He never understood why his uncle always insisted on meeting their clients in the middle of nowhere with only a frigid tent and a small space heater for warmth. It wasn’t as though they couldn’t hold negotiations in a warmer climate like the Middle East or perhaps some small island nation in the Caribbean hungry for a cash infusion. Or, better yet, the larger arms conventions held throughout the world with all the flash of a Hollywood premiere and sexy models to chat up during his free time.
Hands clasped behind his back and dressed in the sharply creased military uniform of his small country, the sixtyish General Davi perused their offerings, lips together in barely suppressed excitement at the smorgasbord of imminent destruction in front of him. His two aides, dressed similarly but with far less bling on their uniforms, stood close by, side arms at the ready. One held a leather briefcase. Two of the general’s khaki-wearing grunts with AK-47s slung over their shoulders stood guard near the entrance. Outside the tent, two friends from Ilya’s uncle’s military days were keeping watch.
As Uncle Piotr had taught him, Ilya made sure to place the larger, more expensive weapons near the front of the display, with the less costly pieces at the back. They could always count on the general’s lust for the latest and greatest, even if the new features were more for show than actual use. Uncle Piotr had correctly pegged the general as an early adopter, one who must have the newest technology in everything, especially weapons, and was happy to pay the exorbitant prices attached to being first in line.
The general nodded at one of the submachine guns on display. “May I?”
“Of course.” Uncle Piotr stepped aside so that Ilya could assist Davi with the weapon.
The general’s expression switched to one of surprise as he lifted the gun to his shoulder. “It is so light.”
Ilya smiled, nodding. “The RK1700 is constructed almost completely of polymer, making it much lighter than a conventional submachine gun.” He picked up a more traditional gun, similar in size, and handed it to Davi. The general weighed both and gave the conventional firearm back to Ilya.
“Tell me about this.”
Ilya caught Piotr’s eye and gave him a quick smirk before turning to Davi. This would be an easy sale. The only question would be how many and how soon.
“The RK1700 is a prototype Personal Defense Weapon, not yet on the market. Due to our contact at the manufacturer, we were able to procure the first iteration of this state-of-the-art game changer.” When Uncle Piotr had offered a sizable bribe to the contact, he’d been more than willing to sell out his employer and steal the prototype.
Ilya continued. “Weighing only one-point-two kilograms empty, the 1700 has a magazine capacity of fifty rounds, fully ten more than other competing PDWs on the market.” As his uncle had instructed earlier, he paused to give the general a moment to absorb the information. Piotr gave him a quick, proud smile. Ilya nodded at the compact weapon. “As you can see, the smaller size will work well in close quarters. It uses a short stroke piston gas system, much like the MP7, and has better accuracy.”
The general sighted along the barrel, tracking an imaginary quarry, then returned the weapon to the display table. “But why would I take a chance on this untried Russian technology when I am able to purchase the German-made PF-2100 at a fraction of the price?”
Ilya glanced at his uncle for help. Usually the general didn’t balk at this stage of the negotiations. Piotr cleared his throat and stepped forward.
“I was unaware the Germans had opened up production of the PF-2100.”
General Davi smiled and rocked forward on his toes, obviously pleased to possess inside information. “They have for my new broker. In fact, he has offered me quite a deal if I purchase directly through him.”
This wasn’t good. The general was one of their best customers, representing at minimum fifty percent of their business.
“I can match his offer.” Uncle Piotr wasn’t about to let Davi flounce off to another dealer without a fight.
General Davi remained silent, apparently weighing his options, and then said, “I’m sorry, but I have an agreement—”
“Does our history mean nothing to you?” Piotr asked.
Ilya detected barely suppressed anger in his uncle’s usually calm voice. Ignoring the cold sweat trickling down his back, Ilya stepped forward, breaking the stare down between the two men.
“We do have something that I am certain your new broker does not,” he said, defying his uncle’s warning glance as he moved toward an empty table at the back of the tent. He reached under the table and brought out a stainless steel case.
“Ilya, I don’t think the general is interested in this—”
But the general had perked up considerably and was already walking toward Ilya. His aides followed him, curiosity sparking in their eyes.
Uncle Piotr sighed and joined them. He leaned in close and whispered, “What the hell are you doing, Ilya? These have already been sold.”
“Do you want to lose him?” Ilya whispered back. “Tell him we’re taking orders.”
“Gentlemen.” Ilya made a point to look around the tent, as though checking to make sure no one else was nearby. Stupid, he knew, since they were out in the middle of nowhere, but if he had learned one thing from his uncle, it was that an effective sales pitch required at least an element of theater.
“Have you ever heard of NUCLEUS?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” the general answered, irritation lacing his voice.
“Then you know their work is considered proprietary by the United States government, and that only a precious few multinational companies are allowed access to their data.”
General Davi nodded, his attention riveted on the case.
Ilya continued. “For the past five years, my uncle and I have cultivated a member within this organization. A member who until recently had been understandably wary of our overtures.”
Uncle Piotr took over the narrative. “Due to a shift in his circumstances, he is willing to work with us, as long as the money is sufficient and if we are careful with whom we share these secrets.”
“I’m listening,” the general said.
Ilya moved to unlock the case, but Uncle Piotr motioned for him to stop. General Davi frowned, clearly annoyed. Don’t provoke him too much, Uncle, Ilya prayed. The general was known for his short fuse and impatience, especially when it came to weapons. Rumor had it he’d killed a man who took too long to load the magazine of a gun he wanted to use.
“Before I allow my nephew to show you what is in that case, I need assurances that you will continue to call on our services first before purchasing elsewhere.”
Ilya watched the general closely, looking for signs that he was considering his uncle’s request. Davi remained inscrutable.
“All I ask is that you give us first chance to win your business,” Piotr added.
“Done.” Davi waved his hand, dismissing Piotr’s concerns. “What is this weapon that is so amazing?”
Uncle Piotr smiled and nodded at Ilya to open the case. Nestled in protective gray foam were three four-inch rounds, with an additional round split open to reveal the interior. A thin booklet, stamped Top Secret next to the company’s logo, lay next to the open round.
General Davi stared at the case. “Bullets? Why would I need this? I have already more than enough stockpiled in my warehouses.”
“Not like these you haven’t.” Uncle Piotr selected one of the brass-jacketed projectiles and held it up. “Meet the first small arms smart bullet.”
Davi narrowed his eyes. “Am I to believe this actually works?”
“Yes.”
The general shook his head and laughed. “My dear Piotr, don’t be offended, but there has been talk of a so-called smart bullet since the seventies. So far, none have lived up to their promise.”
Ilya slid the case closer to the general. “This one does. There is a tiny computer chip embedded inside the casing.”
“A counterweight has been placed near its nose, much like a rocket, and the fixed fins near the tail keep its trajectory true,” added Piotr. “Optical sensors have been placed near the head.”
Davi leaned closer to inspect the interior view of the round.
Ilya continued. “We’ve done field trials. It’s the most accurate bullet either of us has ever fired, and will course-correct for up to twenty-five hundred meters.”
“Two and a half kilometers?” The general’s mouth popped open in surprise. His aides glanced at each other, obviously impressed. Davi nodded at the aide with the briefcase. “This could make an assassin out of my secretary. I’ll take as many as you can produce. How much?”
While Uncle Piotr and the general haggled over price, Ilya returned the 50-caliber round to the case. When the general’s aide opened his briefcase, Ilya forced himself not to stare. He’d never seen that much money in one place before—all of it US currency.
Ilya glanced up at a muffled thud on the outside of the tent. A succession of cracking sounds erupted near the entrance. Both of the general’s guards staggered backward and crumpled to the ground. Stunned, Ilya froze before his brain kicked into gear. He yelled a warning to his uncle as he slammed the case closed and dropped to the ground under the table. Frantic, he reached for his side arm. His spirits plunged with the memory of the general’s insistence that he hand over the weapon to his uncle when the meeting started.
This can’t be the general’s doing—I saw his guards fall.
More shots cracked. Closer, this time. Three more bodies thudded to the ground. Ilya stayed where he was, his breath coming in short gasps as he fought through panic. Fear bloomed in his chest, magnifying his thundering heartbeat as he muttered a prayer for survival.
There were only three shots. Maybe the gunman has spared Uncle Piotr. Ilya remained on the ground, too scared to look, warmth spreading through his crotch as he pissed himself.
“What are you doing?” The general’s outrage was belied by the slight waver in his voice.
Three shots, three bodies, and the general is still alive. The gunman has killed Uncle Piotr. Ilya craned his neck, trying to see under the edge of the tablecloth. His uncle’s body was nowhere to be seen. A pair of legs appeared in Ilya’s view—camouflage pants tucked inside tall boots.
“I’ll take that, General.”
The thick accent sent a chill careening down Ilya’s spine. How did the Frenchman know about this meeting? If anything, only a handful of people knew of his uncle’s extracurricular activities. If this man was actually the feared arms dealer known as the Frenchman, then the smart bullets were most certainly lost and Ilya and the general would soon be dead.
He could only guess what had happened to Uncle Piotr’s men—two old military buddies who were supposed to be outside the tent monitoring the surrounding farmland for intruders.
“I was going to tell you about this as soon as we spoke again.” General Davi’s voice faltered and he paused. “Wait—where is the other case?”
Ilya shrank back, clutching the prized bullets to his chest. He needed to escape, burrow beneath the tent’s wall, run for his life. But his legs wouldn’t move. Helplessness overwhelmed him, and he fought back tears.
The man with the French accent sighed, reached down, and raised the tablecloth. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, strangling the case with his hands.
“Get up. Now.” The Frenchman’s command brooked no argument. Hot tears coursed down Ilya’s cheeks as he scrambled to his feet.
“Don’t shoot me,” he pleaded, angry with himself for having given up his side arm. He hadn’t thought anything of the general’s request at the time—not with his uncle’s friends keeping watch outside. The Frenchman held out his hand and wiggled his fingers, dark eyes snapping with amusement. His narrow face and dark goatee reminded Ilya of the devil.
A shudder surged through him at the thought.
Reluctantly, Ilya put the case on top of the table and slid it toward him. The Frenchman opened the locks and, eyebrow arched, scanned the interior. Satisfied, he snapped the lid closed and put the case under his arm. The briefcase with the general’s money was in his free hand. He then waved the general over to stand next to Ilya.
To his credit, Davi looked more angry than afraid but did as he was told. Ilya took solace in the general’s show of apparent bravery and willed his tears away. If he was to die, then he would die well.
The Frenchman raised his weapon. Heart hammering in his ears, Ilya squeezed his eyes shut. The general sucked in his breath.
The Frenchman fired.
For a moment, Ilya thought he might already be dead, but then the general slumped to the ground beside him. When the second bullet didn’t come, Ilya opened his eyes to slits. The Frenchman was perusing the other weapons.
None of them were loaded, or Ilya would have attempted to assassinate him. The Frenchman was the scourge of Russian arms dealers everywhere—a menace to be eradicated. No one was immune from the man’s reach. He operated by his own impenetrable code, which included stealing and murder if it suited his needs. Ilya would have been a hero.
As if sensing his thoughts, the Frenchman turned to look at him. His piercing black eyes noted everything, like a predator on the hunt. At least, so Ilya imagined.
“You’re wondering why I didn’t kill you,” he said, his tone conversational.
Ilya shook his head. He found it hard to speak. He spotted Uncle Piotr’s lifeless body a few yards away on the floor and started to shake.
The Frenchman smiled, stepped closer. “Tell everyone you know what happened here today.”
A giant of a man carrying a submachine gun pushed a hand truck through the entrance past the guard’s bodies. The Frenchman acknowledged him and turned his attention back to Ilya.
“Tell them it is pointless to resist, as I will continue to gain control by any means necessary.”
The giant began putting the weapons back into their cases and stacking them on top of each other on the hand truck.
Ilya finally found his voice. “Why did you kill my uncle?” The reality of his loss had begun to sink in.
The Frenchman smiled. “Because that’s the only currency your kind understands.” With that, he turned and left.
His knees suddenly weak, Ilya gripped the table for support. How would he explain this to his aunt and his mother, or even worse, Piotr’s brother, Uncle Vladimir? He watched his uncle’s blood seep onto the ground from the bullet wound to his head.
A quiet rage burned in Ilya Kovshevnikov’s chest.
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