Page 72 of Devil's Retribution

There was one breathless moment when the gate guard walked up to the car with its darkened windows and tapped on the driver’s side glass. Sergei rolled down the window just enough that the guard could see his face.

It was late and raining steadily now. The glimpse I got of the guard’s face looked tired. I tensed just slightly, ready to shift my aim and blow a hole through him if he noticed us sitting in the back seat.

He didn’t. Just called in briefly on his radio, then waved our car on.

We parked in the circular driveway. I gave an order over my throat mic, then waited three minutes.

Confirmation came. We got out, Alexei with his gun on Sergei, while I kept mine down at my side and strode toward the door.

A guard walked around the corner of the house and saw me, pausing for a moment. Before he could speak up or radio in, two of my men emerged from the bushes beside him, silenced him, and dragged him into hiding.

A camera faced the front porch, rotating, a single red light glowing beside its lens. Before I had even set foot on the first step, the camera went dormant suddenly, its light going out.

Beside me, Alexei smiled tightly. At least the rest of his men were reliable.

The door opened for us as we stepped up. One of Igor’s men blinked out at us with a shellshocked look. I pointed my pistol and shooed him outside.

Seconds later, my men had him too, and the three of us were walking inside.

We found Igor in his entertainment room, tensely puffing away at a Cohiba cigar he should have savored. There was a pistol on the bar top beside him.

His eyes widened when he saw me, and he grabbed for the gun—but I had mine pointed at him before he could scoop it up. “Ah-ah, Igor, don’t be stupid.”

He grabbed it anyway and I shot him.

He buckled backward, clutching his middle, face going gray and creasing with rage in the same instant. I heard him fire, heard both of us fire—and then he was slumping to his knees.

And so was Sergei.

Igor had three holes to his mid body and was bleeding from his belly and mouth. He let out a raspy laugh as Sergei collapsed, a shocked look frozen on his face. Igor’s shot had missed me entirely and taken a chunk from his own ally’s head. And Igor was laughing, a spluttering, gurgling noise.

I stepped past the body and stood over him, kicking the pistol from his limp hand. Alexei retrieved it. “I know you sent the man who killed my brother. Graves paid the money, but you gave the order.”

Igor’s pained, wheezing laugh went on. “It’s funny,” he slurred. Blood spattered as he coughed. “You think I’d only give the order.”

I froze. “What?”

He struggled to straighten up, his feet slipping in his rapidly pooling blood as his strength trickled away. But his eyes were still defiant. “I killed him myself. I did it. I shot your brother and I made sure you were watching—”

My gun went off in my hand. I said nothing, didn’t scream, didn’t rage, just squeezed the trigger until Igor had no more breath to mock me with.

Then there was quiet, except for the ringing in my ears.

“Jesus,” Alexei breathed. He pulled out his phone to dial up a cleaning crew, stammering a little as he gave the orders.

I stood there and I watched the last of the light leave Igor’s eyes. I had waited years for this moment, but now that it was done, all I felt was tired and hollow.

I wanted to go home—back to my enemy’s conquered penthouse, back to my nephew who looked at me like I was a hero, and back to the woman I—

I closed my eyes. The woman I love. The woman I want to be mine for good.

But not yet. There was one last thing that had to happen before we had that kind of conversation. The last threat against my woman’s life had to be eliminated.

It was time to go to Haiti. It was time to kill Charles Graves.

Chapter 29

Emma