Page 9

M orning breaks like a headache across Eastern Europe—gray, persistent, and unwelcome as fuck. I peel myself from the rumpled sheets, Mikhail's massive arm still draped across the mattress where I'd been.

My muscles scream from the kind of workout Equinox doesn't advertise in their glossy brochures. Three people, one mattress, and enough baggage to sink the Titanic twice over. Just another Tuesday in my new life.

Volkov's already up, of course. The man probably schedules his REM cycles with military precision. He's at the grimy kitchen table, surveillance photos spread before him like tarot cards predicting someone's bloody future. Harlow's, if we're lucky.

"Coffee," he says, sliding a chipped mug across the table without looking up. Not a question, not an offer—just the bare minimum acknowledgment that I exist and might require caffeination before discussing murder plans.

I take it, grimacing at the first sip. Tastes like motor oil filtered through Soviet-era asbestos. "Jesus. You Russians consider this coffee? No wonder you're all so fucking grim."

His eyes flick to mine, that ghost of amusement dancing at the edges. "Is fuel, not pleasure."

"Story of my life lately," I mutter, dropping into the chair across from him.

My thighs protest the contact, bruised in patterns that match Mikhail's massive hands.

Memory flashes—his Russian poetry when he was balls-deep, the eloquence that only emerged when his brain short-circuited with pleasure.

Speaking of the mountain, Mikhail emerges from the bedroom looking fresh as a fucking daisy. His shirt stretches across shoulders wide enough to block out the sun, hair still damp from a shower I didn't hear running.

"Transport ready," he announces, helping himself to coffee. "Three hours to Vienna."

I squint at the wall clock—5:47 AM. Perfect. Nothing like planning an international assassination before sunrise.

Volkov tosses me a passport. I catch it one-handed, flipping it open to find my face staring back. Different name, different nationality, same dead eyes.

"Sofia Petrov. Russian citizen. Business consultant." He shrugs at my raised eyebrow. "Best cover. Americans too noticeable."

"And this?" I gesture to my obviously not-Russian face.

"Many ethnicities in Russia. You speak passable Russian. Will not be questioned."

I do speak "passable Russian," thanks to three weeks of Killion's language immersion torture—having vocabulary drilled into me while hanging upside down from ceiling hooks tends to make lessons stick. Still, "passable" is generous.

"Our cover?" I ask, swallowing another mouthful of liquid punishment.

"Business associates meeting potential client." Volkov taps a photograph of an elegant hotel. "Harlow stays here when in Vienna. Meeting contact in restaurant at noon."

His finger traces the building's entrance points, exit routes, security camera blindspots—the blueprint of an ambush in the making. I focus on the mechanics, trying to ignore the persistent thought lodged like a bullet fragment in my brain.

Did I want Killion?

The question Volkov tossed at me last night while buried inside me. The one I answered with a breathless "yes" while balanced on the knife-edge between pleasure and rage. The truth I'd rather carve out of my skull than examine by daylight.

Wanting the man who sculpted me into a weapon? Fucking textbook Stockholm syndrome. Or maybe just proof that I've always been drawn to the ones who'd hurt me worst. Nothing says "daddy issues" like lusting after your handler-turned-potential-executioner.

"Focus," Volkov barks, snapping me back. "You understand plan?"

"Intercept Harlow, play the frightened asset seeking protection, get him somewhere private, stick him with the happy juice, extract intel." I recite it mechanically, like a shopping list for milk, bread, and kidnapping supplies. "What could possibly go wrong?"

Mikhail's laugh is like gravel in a dryer. "Everything. That is why we have backup plans."

"Which are?"

"We kill everyone and burn hotel down," he offers with complete seriousness.

"Subtle." I can't help but smile. God help me, I'm starting to like these merciless fuckers.

An hour later, we're packed into an unmarked sedan, weapons stashed in hidden compartments, headed west toward Austria.

The landscape rolls past like someone set the world on grayscale—frozen fields, skeletal trees, abandoned Soviet-bloc architecture crumbling back into the earth.

We pass borders with forged papers and practiced stories, Volkov's connections smoothing our path like expensive lubricant.

Vienna rises from the winter mist like a fairy tale somebody fucked up—all Baroque splendor and imperial grandeur frosted with dirty snow and modern commerce.

Horse-drawn carriages share streets with BMWs, centuries of history packed into blocks where Mozart and Hitler both once walked.

The perfect backdrop for a high-stakes kidnapping.

No time to sight-see when you’re on a mission. More’s the pity.

We check into our staging area—a nondescript apartment in the 4th district rented under yet another false identity.

Thirty minutes to prep, then we move to positions.

I strip and change into Sofia Petrov's wardrobe—charcoal pencil skirt, silk blouse, heels that make my ass look spectacular but would be a bitch to run in.

Good thing the plan doesn't involve running. Much.

Volkov watches me transform with clinical interest, none of last night's hunger visible in his assessment.

"Your walk," he says as I step into the heels. "Too American. Smaller steps. Less"—he waves his hand—"hips."

"I'm not exactly trying to blend in," I remind him. "The whole point is for Harlow to notice me."

"Yes, but not immediately as American agent." He demonstrates, his walk suddenly shifting to something more contained, more precise. The shit they must teach in Russian spy school.

"Fine." I adjust, shortening my stride, pulling my shoulders back in a posture that reeks of old-world discipline.

Volkov nods approval. "Better. Remember, twelve minutes from first contact. After that, even best drug cannot guarantee clean extraction."

"Twelve minutes to mindfuck the Director of Special Operations, stick him with a needle, and get him to a secure location." I check my watch—a sleek Cartier that's probably worth more than Isaac's car. "No pressure."

"Pressure makes diamonds," Mikhail rumbles from where he's assembling a suppressed pistol with the tender care most men reserve for their dicks.

"Or corpses," I add.

"Think good thoughts," Volkov says with that bloodless half-smile. “Everything will work out.”

I don’t know about that but fuck it, I’ll take all the good vibes the universe can offer.

We split three blocks from the hotel, Mikhail peeling off to secure our extraction vehicle and backup position, Volkov heading for the service entrance to neutralize security cameras.

I continue alone, heels clicking against ancient cobblestones, Sofia Petrov's credentials burning a hole in my designer handbag.

The Hotel Imperial stands like an aging aristocrat among peasants—cream-colored facade, flags hanging limp in the winter stillness, doormen in uniforms that probably haven't changed since the Habsburg Empire fell.

I stride through the revolving doors like I belong, like I'm just another business consultant meeting a client rather than an operative hunting the man who tried to have me killed.

The lobby gleams with old-money opulence—marble floors polished to mirror shine, crystal chandeliers throwing fractured light across the faces of the wealthy and the wannabes. I note exits, security personnel, camera positions—all the details Killion drilled into me until they became second nature.

Killion. Fuck. His name rises unbidden again, an uninvited guest at my mental dinner party. I push it aside, focusing on the now, on the hunt, on staying alive.

The bar is where Harlow should appear after his meeting—the Oak Room, all dark wood paneling and discreet lighting, the kind of place where champagne never goes flat and secrets never leave the premises.

I select a seat with sight lines to both elevators and main entrance, order a mineral water I have no intention of drinking, and settle in to play the deadliest game of my life.

My hand brushes the tranquilizer pen in my jacket pocket. Volkov's voice echoes: "One click to disorient. Two clicks to drop. Simple." Yeah, simple until it isn't.

Time drips like cold molasses. Twelve minutes. Eleven. Ten. The bar slowly fills with afternoon drinkers—business deals being brokered over thirty-year-old scotch, affairs being kindled over wine older than their participants, secrets being traded like baseball cards.

I check my watch. 1:47 PM. Harlow's running late, which means the plan is already fraying at the edges. The longer I sit, the higher the risk of being made by hotel security or—worse—someone from the Dollhouse.

That's when I feel it—that prickling awareness at the base of my skull, the sensation of being watched. Not the casual glances of men appreciating my legs, but the focused attention of a predator.

I turn, expecting Harlow's silver-fox composure.

Instead, I find myself staring into a ghost's face.

Killion.

Standing at the bar entrance, winter light haloing his dark silhouette, eyes locked on mine with the intensity of a targeting laser.

He's found us. Found me.

And somewhere in the hotel, Volkov is about to spring a trap that's already been compromised.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I maintain my composure—Sofia Petrov wouldn't panic, wouldn't flinch, wouldn't betray with a tight expression that her entire world just tilted sideways. I sip my water, eyes meeting his over the rim in silent challenge.

Come and get me, you son of a bitch.