Page 30 of Saint

“According to my contact, the Bratva has one of her men and Ivan Zaitsev locked up at Petrov’s compound outside of Moscow.”

Brax swore. “You believe your contact?”

“I do. Plus, it might explain why Carlisle is here.”

“You can’t infil that compound alone. We’re coming out there.”

“I can,” he insisted, voice low, “and the fewer people, the better. Trust me, I know how to get in and out with no one the wiser.”

“What if you need backup?”

“Backup won’t help. Petrov has too many men for our small team to take on. The only way to do this is with stealth and speed. A lone operator. I’ll sneak in, grab Zaitsev and my contact’s man, then we can use Zaitsev and Mia as bargaining chips to catch Carlisle.”

For a long moment, Braxton didn’t say anything. Finally, he relented. “I’ll have Pyro get the jet ready for Moscow. If you change your mind about the team coming—”

“I won’t,” Saint said firmly.

“Roger. Good luck.” Brax must’ve known arguing with him was pointless.

“I’ll call you once we touch down in Moscow.” After disconnecting the call, Saint released a breath. Having Ex Nihilogo to Moscow wouldn’t help and only push things back. He needed to move now and do it alone. Besides, he had an ulterior motive for going without his team.

Saint wanted his revenge. A plan was coming together in his head and this was his chance to destroy the man who had initially embraced him as a child then turned him into a cold-blooded monster. Petrov had pretended to care, but he’d only used and abused him. After tossing him to the wolves and leaving him for dead, Saint had wound up in prison and began obsessing over revenge. One day, he knew he’d have the opportunity to wreak his vengeance.

That day was finally here.

After sending a quick message off to Nadia, he stepped back into the living room. He was surprised to see Mia up already. He watched her stretch like a cat, realize he was there, then openly stare at his bare chest.

“Good morning,” she murmured, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“Morning,” he grumbled, heading to the small kitchen to search for coffee. He might be a grump without his nicotine, but he was a beast without caffeine. He lucked out and found some instant crap—not his first choice, but better than nothing. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

While she disappeared into the bathroom, Saint boiled some water, found two mugs and dumped a couple spoonfuls of instant coffee into each one. Mia appeared as he was pouring the hot water and she sat down at the small table. He set a mug in front of her, but didn’t sit. Instead, he propped a hip against the counter and took a sip of the much-needed caffeine.

She lifted her mug and blew on the steaming liquid, studying him closely. “Who is Petrov?” she asked.

“Russian Bratva,” he answered.

“And you think he wants that chemist to give him the neurotoxin you mentioned? What’s it called?”

“Novichok. And, I can’t let Petrov get his hands on it.”

“So, what’re you going to do?”

“Take care of it,” he said simply.

“By yourself?”

“No one knows Petrov’s compound better than I do.”

“And why’s that?”

“See all these tattoos?” He lifted his arms. “Marks from the Russian mafia. I used to be part of the Bratva, Mia. In case you haven’t guessed yet, I’m not a good guy. I’md'yavol.”

His black eyes held her hostage as she cocked her head in confusion.

“The devil,” he translated.

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