Chapter 1
Nika
Hydroponic tanks hiss and gurgle through the humid conservatory. Sunlight pours through the glass walls, reflecting off the thin layer of snow that dusts the mountains and heats the greenhouse even this late in November.
Roses climb trellises in disciplined rows, whites and creams on the left, pinks and yellows on the right. Centered on the floor between them, wooden benches contain tanks that overflow with greens, herbs, and produce plants.
Even in my sanctuary, everything must serve a purpose.
The familiar fragrance of earth and blooms envelops me as I focus on the tablet. A blue dot inches west across the screen, tracking the package and delivery driver.
Maxim Belov. Mad Max, Roman Kozlov’s cold, emotionless killer.
The dot isn’t a GPS tracker. He already caught on to those.
We’re pulling data from the DOT traffic cameras along I-90 between Chicago and Seattle, just a handful of miles away from my mountain sanctuary.
Max is somewhere past Spokane now, maybe as far as Ritzville, and covering ground quickly.
We forced them to wait for four long weeks while I took my time setting up secure communication and drop spots throughout Chicago and beyond.
With the hook deeply embedded, we’re reeling them in. We’re luring the Kozlovs out of their safe territory in Chicago toward the West Coast, where we hold more sway and the home court advantage.
“He’s making good time.”
Dimitri Sorokin moves soundlessly, a skill I’ve tried to emulate but never quite mastered.
He stops at my elbow and studies the blue dot on the screen.
I nod. “Roman would have teleported him here if he could have.”
Under the bright light filtering into the greenhouse, Dimitri appears younger than his thirty-five years with his brown eyes and hair, soft chin and nose, and generically handsome but forgettable face. Perfect features for what he does.
Whatwedo.
He leans against the bench and crosses his arms. “We could have finished this a while ago, Kai.”
The nickname softens his words, but I still sense his disapproval.
Although I hate to disappoint him, I know I’ve done the right thing. “It had to be November thirtieth.”
Several seconds pass before understanding dawns on Dimitri’s features. “Lilia’s birthday.”
I lift my shears when I find a shriveled, dried leaf clinging to a rose stem. The dead greenery falls away with the slightest pressure. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
Having Roman—the man I haven’t claimed as my father in fifteen years—hand over the necklace on my murdered mother’s birthday was my idea.
That’s not just strategy. It’s poetry. Dark, cruel, knife-twisting, bone-scraping poetry.
After fifteen pain-fueled years of plotting and machinations, I’ll finally get my mother’s locket back. The one a blood-drenched Roman ripped from her throat after he killed her.
The memory assaults me without warning.
Shrieking wind over the trees. Gunfire mixed with thunder. So many ear-ringing screams. The acrid scent of smoke. My mother’s vacant eyes staring upward.
Inhaling, I lock the images in the place where I cage the screams. The home of the nine-year-old girl who found her dead mother.
She doesn’t get to surface. Not now, when I’m so close to my goal.
