“Love?” He almost spits the word. “Men like them don’t love. They possess. They obsess. They’ll move on to their next hunt when you’re gone.”
I laugh, the sound startling to my own ears. “That’s why you’ll lose. You think you understand them, but you don’t.”
The truth of my certainty settles in my chest like a burning coal. I know who Ace and Cyrus are—what they’re capable of. I know, with bone-deep conviction, that they’re coming for me with deadly focus.
“They’ll find me,” I say, a simple statement of fact. “And when they do, there won’t be enough left of you to identify.”
The man circles behind me again. I hear him set the knife down on the metal table, the clatter of steel against steel.
“Eight million dollars,” he says, voice tighter now. “That’s what your men cost Viktor Kozlov. A price that must be paid—in cash or blood.”
“Then you should have asked for money,” I reply, “because taking me ensures you’ll only get blood. Yours.”
His hand grips my hair, yanking my head back. “Such confidence for someone tied to a chair with no power.”
I don’t flinch despite the pain radiating across my scalp. “I’ve survived worse than you.”
And I have. Richard Henderson’s basement taught me what true monsters look like. This man, with his knife and his threats, is playing at terror. He has no idea what waits for him when my twins arrive.
He releases my hair and walks back into my field of vision. His face has lost some of its composure.
“Forty hours,” he says. “Then we’ll see how much faith you have in your killers.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “I won’t need that long.”
45
ACE
Twelve hours. Twelve hours since they took her. Each minute stretches like an eternity, but I’ve channeled my rage into planning, calculating, and preparing.
Xavier’s team has arrived, six men in tactical gear, armed and ready. Professional enough not to ask questions when I laid out the assault plan.
“We move in three minutes,” I tell Cyrus, checking my weapon one last time.
He nods, eyes cold and focused. We haven’t spoken much since the call. We don’t need to. Fifteen years of operating as a single lethal unit means words are superfluous.
The abandoned steel plant looms ahead, a hulking shadow against the night sky. Through my night-vision scope, I count the guards—two at the main entrance, three patrolling the perimeter fence, two by the loading dock, one on the roof. Eight total. Felix’s intel was accurate.
I signal the team to take position. Cyrus moves to my right without prompting, falling into the familiar rhythm we perfected years ago.
“Keira first,” he whispers. “Everything else second.”
I nod once. “No survivors.”
The guard at the northwest corner dies first—my knife sliding between his ribs. His body makes no sound as I lower it to the ground. Twenty seconds later, Cyrus drops the second guard at the opposite corner.
Xavier’s men dispatch the rest of the perimeter guards with equal efficiency. Five down.
The rooftop guard turns at the wrong moment and catches a glimpse of me. I’m already in motion, my knife finding his throat before his hand reaches his radio. Six.
Blood stains my hands, but I feel nothing except the cold focus of the mission. Keira is inside. Nothing else matters.
The two remaining guards at the main entrance sense something’s wrong. One reaches for his radio while the other draws his weapon.
The alarm blares through the night, shattering our silent approach.
“Contact front,” I breathe into my comm. “Moving to phase two.”
