Page 143 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"Phoenix Two, northwest sector clear," Erik's voice through comms. "Five targets eliminated."

The fog works both ways now—they can't see us either. Prague team picks them off from above while we move through the maze. It's not a fight anymore; it's pest control.

"Where the fuck is the fire coming from?" A guard spins in circles, spraying bullets wildly into the fog.

Damian emerges from his left, puts him down with clinical efficiency despite his fucked shoulder, then disappears again.

"Target moving toward the water," Katya reports. "Southeast corner, heading for the pier."

Through the chaos, I see him—a figure in an expensive suit stumbling through the fog toward the harbor. After thirteen years of hunting, Petrov's running like a common criminal.

"Go," Cole says, appearing at our side. "We've got this."

Mira doesn't need to be told twice. She's already moving, and I'm right behind her, that invisible thread between us pulling tight.

The pier materializes from the fog like something out of a nightmare. Wooden planks slick with moisture, stretching out into nothing. And at the very end, Alexei Petrov on his knees.

Even from here, I can see he's exactly what Mira described—mid-forties, silver at the temples, the kind of distinguished look that hides the monster underneath. His suit probably costs more than most people make in a month, now soaked with harbor water and fear-sweat.

"My little swan," he says as we approach, and his voice in person is different—older, tired, but still carrying that manipulation like a weapon. "Look what I've created."

Mira stops ten feet away, weapon trained on his head. "You created nothing. I survived you."

"Every skill you have came from me. Through Mikhail's training, through the trials I designed." He shifts on his knees, and I can see him working angles even now. "You should thank me."

"Thank you?" Her voice could freeze blood. "For murdering my parents? For destroying a sixteen-year-old girl's life?"

"For making you strong. Look at you—an apex predator. Without me, you'd be another weak socialite, wasting your potential on charity galas."

The manipulation is masterful. Taking credit for her strength, making himself essential to who she became.

"Without you," Mira says, stepping closer, "I'd have parents. I'd have peace. I'd have been whole."

"Whole is overrated. Broken things are more interesting."

She moves so fast I barely track it. The Glock cracks against his temple, sending him sprawling. Blood immediately flows from the gash.

"That's for my mother."

He tries to push himself up, and her boot catches his ribs. The crack is audible.

"My father."

Another kick, this one to his kidney. He coughs, blood speckling the pier.

"The girl who loved you."

She drops to one knee beside him, gun pressed to his skull. I can see her finger on the trigger, one pound of pressure from ending everything.

"Do it," he wheezes through blood. "Prove me right. Show everyone you're the weapon I forged."

The psychological fuck even now. Making her murder prove his point.

"Mira." I move closer, not to stop her—never to stop her—but to be there. "Whatever you choose."

She looks up at me, and I see the war in her eyes. Thirteen years of planning versus the realization that killing him proves his point. That every skill he's claiming credit for would be validated by his death.

The knife appears in her hand—I didn't even see her draw it. "Remember this?" She holds it where he can see. "My tenth birthday present. You said every girl should know how to protect herself."