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My muscles go rigid.Shit, it’s too fucking soon. I need more time between these assignments.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the brewing headache. My job as an undercover FBI agent doesn’t mix with my . . . private work, such as tonight’s hit.

I force a lazy drawl. “Did he now?”

“He must think you shit gold,” Scar muses, but I hear the edge of suspicion. “Three hits in one month? Hell, Pretty, I’m starting to wonder if they've got you working for someone else.”

Ice crawls up my spine at how close Scar is to the truth. “Fuck if I know.”

Scar doesn’t press, but he doesn’t need to. The silence stretching between us is telling.

He sighs. “Look, you’ve been getting a lot of jobs lately. That’s all I’m saying. It’s as if he knows you have a stunt double.”

“Hawkins wouldn’t figure that shit out if I drew him a map,” I reassure Scar. “Anyway, what’d you do?”

“What else could I do? I mimicked your usual insolent bullshit and took the job. I’m not exactly in a position to make waves since I’m supposed to be dead.”

True. Three years ago, the Agency sent me to kill Scar for going rogue. For reasons I still can’t explain—I let him live. Now, after reconstructive surgery, erased fingerprints, and altered dental records, Scar has become a ghost living in my shadow.

Only problem is, he doesn’t know just how deep those shadows run.

“Who’s the target?” My voice stays carefully neutral.

“Some Russian Pakhan.”

A cold premonition ripples through me. “Is it by any chance Hugo Antonov?”

“How the hell did you guess?”

Fuuuck.

Of course, it’s him. The same name that’s on my kill list. The man I’ve planned to strangle with my own hands at some point in the near future. The universe sure has a sick and inconvenient sense of timing.

“Anyway,” Scar continues, “I figure I’ll take this for the team. I could leave for Moscow after tonight’s hit. Clean and bloodless—as per usual, right?”

I shut my eyes, fingers instinctively finding the crucifix around my neck, again pressing the cold metal to my lips. “No, Scar. I’ll do the honors.”

Theline goes quiet. I can picture him now, leaning back, running a hand through his hair—which he dyes to match my dark blond—in frustration. “Your hands are full, Pretty. Got an extra pair. That’s what I’m here for, remember?”

I open the leather scroll again and stare at Hugo Antonov’s name until my vision blurs with the need to squeeze the life out of him. I can’t let it go. Not if I want to sleep at night.

“Antonov is mine, Scar.”

“Fine, asshole,” he spits, but his voice quickly shifts back to easy-going. “I’m tagging along, though. You’ll need me to wipe your snot, considering how sloppy you’re getting.”

This trust between us—Scar’s ability to impersonate me—is a luxury no one in my line of work ever gets. But I’m just not ready to let him into the depths of my darkness.

A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s already noon, which makes it only nine in the morning in San Diego, where Scar is. “Bring the Gulfstream. We’re heading to Moscow at dawn.”

“And Alfred Romano?” Scar asks. “I thought Hawkins wanted him done by tomorrow?”

Actually, Alfred Romano is a personal hit, but Scar doesn’t know that.

Before I can stop myself, I grab the file on my desk and flick the cover open for what must be the hundredth time today.

“Pretty?”

“Huh? Yep. Romano can wait. Let’s sort out the Pervy Pakhan first. We’ll deal with Dipshit Daddy when we return from Moscow.”