Page 112 of 10 Days to Surrender

“So what do you wanna do?” asks Viktor.

A grin spreads across my face. “Educate him on his mistake.”

We pour out into the night. August wind razors between brick tenements, carrying the reek of Serbian cigarettes from the alley.

“There,” Feliks whispers, jerking his chin toward movement at the far end of the alley. “Three targets. On foot.”

I assess them through narrowed eyes. Young. Cocky. The kind of muscle Dragan sends when he wants roving eyes but doesn’t expect serious trouble.

Perfect.

“Circle around behind,” I murmur to Pavel. “Feliks, take the fire escape. I want them boxed in when they reach the middle of the alley.”

My men melt away into the shadows. I stay where I am, counting heartbeats. One. Two. Three…

The Serbians saunter closer, talking quietly among themselves. They haven’t spotted us yet. Good. Let them come to me. Right up to my fucking doorstep.

When the first Serbian draws even with the dumpster, I step out of the shadows. “Dobro vece, gospodo,” I say softly.

Good evening, gentlemen.Spoken in their own tongue.

Their eyes go wide with recognition. But before they can reach for their weapons, Feliks and Pavel materialize behind them. The trap snaps shut with beautiful precision.

What follows is quick, brutal, and deeply satisfying. My body moves like it was never broken, muscle memory taking over as I slam the first man’s head into the brick wall. It pops like a fucking watermelon. His friend tries to draw, but my elbow finds his throat before the gun clears leather. The third manages to get off a single, wild shot that goes harmlessly wide before Pavel takes him down with a bullet to the leg.

When it’s over, I’m barely breathing hard. No pain anywhere—nothing but the rush of victory singing in my blood.

I look down at the two remaining Serbians lying groaning at my feet. “I’d ask you to tell Dragan his time is coming,” I say in Serbian. “But you won’t be around to see it.”

Three shots echo in the alley. Three bodies cool in the late summer air.

I’m ready.

The penthouse feels wrong. Dust sheets shroud furniture like corpses in white body bags. I rip them off couches where Ariel once pinned me with her thighs, sending particulate ghosts dancing in dawn’s gray light.

I move through the space like a ghost, touching things that shouldn’t matter. A pink elastic band on the bathroom counter catches my eye. Ariel’s. I pick it up, hold it gingerly in the palm of my hand. I look at it for a long, long time.

If it weren’t for my phone buzzing, I might’ve stood there for even longer. But when I pull it out, I see her name lighting up the screen.

ARIEL:Just checking you made it back okay.

Five words. Careful. Distant.

Ice.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hitCall.

She picks up on the first ring. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Silence stretches between us, rife with all the things we’re not saying. I want to tell her about the hair tie, about how seeing it made my chest ache. Want to ask if she’s sleeping okay without me there to rub her back.

Instead, I say, “You’re up late.”

“Braxton Hicks. Practice contractions.” A pause. “False alarm, though.”

“You’re okay?”

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