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Meanwhile…

I find her waiting for me in a hotel in Bucharest.

I’m buying a pack of Chesterfields from a twenty-four-hour tobacco shop when a boy of around eight taps my elbow, hands me a keycard, and points to the building across the road. Then he darts away, leaving me to decide whether this is a trap or something else. For some reason, my gut goes with the latter.

Something else, it is.

With my heart beating heavily, I cross the city street, quietly letting myself into room 238.

Illuminated by soft lamplight, she’s pale-limbed and petite, spread out like an offering in black lace. Long, bronze-gold curls fan out over the edge of the bed like a waterfall, painted with streaks of grisly red. A steady drip falls from the ends onto the floor.

Tap, tap, tap.

Her blue eyes are empty, her throat slashed open from ear to ear.

I cross the room and pick up the tiny glass trinket sitting on the side table.

Then I smash it under my boot.

Necks are much more difficult to snap than the movies make it look. The one beneath my hands now is thick and muscley, like the guy it belongs to. Not worth the effort. His trachea will be much easier to crush, and suffocation is just as effective.

But first…

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” I lean in inches from his ear. “ Where are they ?”

His lips clamp shut. It’s the third time I’ve asked. Mind you, this is after shattering one of his knees, breaking an arm, dislocating the other shoulder, and busting his nose.

Still, nothing.

“Okay then, let’s try a different question: where’s your boss?” Digging my knees into his chest until I hear something crack, I loosen my hands to give him just enough air.

His voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Kill me.”

“If you insist.”

Pressing down, I put all my weight onto his throat until his face turns purple and he loses consciousness. Then I keep going. When the guy’s heart stops, I get up and walk away.

Mercy is a thing of the past.

I didn’t start this mission with the intent to kill anyone other than my ultimate target, but if you’re going to work for a motherfucking serial murderer, you’re accepting the high risk of becoming a casualty.

As Tanner has warned me repeatedly, it’s a slippery slope. Sliding into the role of executioner is getting easier to embrace each time.

Our little game of cat and mouse began the minute I left the hospital. Using the information gathered on the other facilities in his international ring, I began hitting them, one by one. Releasing victims, burning buildings to the ground, taking away his source of income.

Let’s be honest: what I’m really hitting is his ego.

He first emerged in Brazil, oozing through the underground like the poisonous slime he is. Scouring the continent, I followed rumors of an American on the run that fit his description. That’s where I made the mistake of leaving survivors who work for him. Tracked me across several continents before I had enough and finally killed them.

Lesson fucking learned.

Of course, Vincent ran again—first to Africa, then Indonesia, and now, Europe. That’s okay, I’m still on his trail, taking his businesses out as I go. Including the lab in California, I’ve dismantled four of his black-market sites, and I have no plans to stop until his legacy is a pile of smoldering ash.

Then I’ll watch him burn, too.

With my gun posed to shoot first and ask questions later, I silently move down the hall, one foot in front of the other. All it would take is the tiniest slip-up, and I’d be fucked. The main floor may be deserted, but there’s still a basement and an upper level to check.

A door to my left stands open a crack, leaving a shaft of dim light to streak across the aged hardwood. Staying hyper aware of my surroundings, I glance inside. A rickety-looking staircase drops down, lit only by a single bare bulb.

Basement it is.

I take each step slowly, cringing with every creak until I reach the bottom. Unlike the other places I’ve infiltrated, I don’t find captives—dead or alive—but between the smell and a scatter of discarded belongings, I know they were here.

Judging by the items, there appear to have been children in the group. That’s something I haven’t seen from him before.

It sends my temper through the goddamn roof.

When I leave the basement and search the upper level, I’m less careful about moving silently. I’m way too fucking pissed.

Turns out, it doesn’t matter, because I only find one person left.

“Yes sir, nineteen of them.” At the sound of a voice, I slide along the wall in the upper-level hallway and peek into an open room.

A short, scrawny guy sits in a small office, illuminated only by computer light. At a glance, there’s no obvious sign of a weapon, and he’s too absorbed in a phone conversation to notice when I creep up behind him.

“They’re waiting in a holding area near the docks. The boat will be leaving in two hours.” I look over his shoulder at the computer screen, catching an address followed by a numbered list of genders and ages.

I was right. They’re kids.

“Nope, no sign of your guy. Are you sure he made it out of Jakarta?”

Ah, Jakarta. His guys almost took me out there, but …

“If you’re talking about me,” I say near his ear, “I made it out of Jakarta.”

His last breath is a soft gasp.

With the gun pressed to his head, I remove the phone from his hand and lift it to my lips. “Five down, motherfucker.”

Then I pull the trigger and hang up.

Heat sears my face, pushing me back several steps. No sirens yet, so I let myself linger long enough to pull out my phone and send a message, staying in the shadows just outside the flickering orange glow.

Sometimes it’s nice to take a minute to enjoy the spoils of war.

Jesus, I sound like I belong in one of Everly’s historical romances.

Blood-soaked curls and lifeless eyes flash through my mind.

I shake my head and remind myself it isn’t?—

It wasn’t ? —

Why can’t I just be allowed to forget?

But it’s a game now, a fucking dangerous one, and every facility I destroy raises the stakes even higher. I need to find that bastard before he takes his next turn. Because now, I’m playing with fire.

Literally.

It crackles as I send the information to a contact from a local agency who assists trafficking victims. I’ve already advised the police of the dock location where Vincent’s latest “sale” is awaiting transport. They should be on their way.

The flames crawl up over the roof just as the distant whine of sirens tells me it’s time to move on. I give one last look and pull the hood of my sweatshirt tighter around my head, leaving the wreckage behind.

The blaze roars louder, devouring everything in its path. With the fire at my back and sirens on the wind, I walk away, blending into the shadows. Let them pick through the ruins—I’m already hunting the next piece.

This isn’t over.

Not until he’s burning, too.