Max hides. He clearly doesn’t trust his strength against me.
I anticipated a mindless brute, but he’s smarter than I suspected.
A good quality in a man. Too bad it won’t keep him alive.
I drop into a crouch and scan the ground beneath the parked cars.
Nothing.
He must have tucked himself behind a tire, or maybe he hopped onto a running board or bumper.
I inhale through the nose and exhale through barely parted lips. Silently, just the way Dimitri trained me.
Max remains quiet too. He’s skilled, but I’m better.
He’ll expect me to go low, sneak along the ground, and use the vehicles for cover. That’s the logical strategy.
So instead, I’ll go high.
The nearest vehicle is a silver SUV, its hood slick with rain that’s blown in and runoff from the upper levels. Pressing a hand on the hood, I jump up and land with my toes on the very edge, where the fiberglass won’t flex.
Dimitri insisted I practice this maneuver for months. He taught me to navigate unstable and slippery surfaces, learning to distribute my weight so precisely that I become a ghost.
One more step and I’m on the roof. From my new vantage point, I can observe the entire garage floor.
Max crouches behind a dark blue sedan two spots away, a gun in hand. He studies the rearview mirror of the vehicle in front of him, hunting for me.
I shudder at the sight of his weapon. I don’t do guns. Years ago, I convinced Dimitri to get rid of his small arsenal.
For the second time today, memories from the island threaten to close in, but I lock them down.
I need to move before Max sees me.
Reaching into my pocket, I extract a half-eaten granola bar and chuck it toward the cars on the opposite side. The open wrapper flutters, then taps on a window before tumbling down.
Max spins on his heels.
Leaping from hood to hood, I treat the cars like stepping stones. With three long strides, I’m above him.
I launch onto his back and grip his hair with my free hand, jerking his head up as I slide the knife along his neck. When he falls forward, I ride him down. His right hand, the one with the gun, flies out to the side, and I kick the weapon away. It clatters onto the concrete, skittering under the sedan and out the other side.
I’m not heavy enough to knock the wind out of him, or maybe he’s just too big. Either way, his breathing remains easy even with me clinging to his back, my knees on the frigid floor as I straddle his ass.
My pulse hammers with adrenaline and something else I refuse to name. Annoyed by my reaction, I give him a little shove.
He lies rigid beneath me. “Nice moves, Nika.”
Hatred burns through my veins, but I remain calm. “Thanks.” My hips rotate, molding to the tight curve of his ass as I bring my leg back under me.
A strangled noise escapes him. “What are you, a fucking cat?”
Is…is this asshole laughing?
The bastard really does have a death wish.
“Meow.” I hold my knife against the side of his throat. He resists for half a second—fueled by instinct, maybe, or pride—then yields.
As he tips his head, our gazes lock. Those arctic eyes radiate cold fury.
