Page 85 of Eyes in the Shadows

“Um, $800 I think?”

“You think?” I snap, pulling out bills.

“$800.”

I learned a very long time ago to carry plenty of cash of whatever currency is local. I always have enough in my wallet to bribe an official, buy an old car, or—apparently—pay for my team member and his woman’s ridiculously expensive dinner. I toss down enough to cover the meal and stand over her protectively as she gathers her coat.

“Rossi is here,” she says quietly to me. I can tell she’s trying to be subtle.

Fuck. I should not have come in without doing a full sweep of the building. That is on me. “Where?” I reply, matching her tone.

“Um, directly behind you. He keeps looking over here, but I don’t think he’s seen your face. Maybe if you cheat this way as we walk out, he won’t…”

A strange sensation spreads through my chest at this small woman’s concern for me. I am not certain how much she knows of the situation, but I doubt that James told her of my picture being posted in hitman forums. Which means she does this for me because she is inclined to protect those around her. Which means that she is foolish, that she does not recognize her own weakness, that she will likely make poor decisions that do not prioritize her own safety… and that she must be defended at all costs.

I move as she recommended, keeping my body diagonal to where she said he is sitting—it protects her from his view as much as me. We are nearly at the door, when I glance into the reflection in the window and see him.

These fucking ridiculous windows. Almost as bad as a mirror. Rossi has seen my face.

I grab Eleanor’s upper arm and pick up the pace, pulling her with me. As we step onto the lot, I see a car parking in the very back and curse. GrigoriFolson stands from the driver’s side and another man I do not recognize slams the passenger door.

My eyes cut to Eleanor. What do I do with her?

I release her arm and grab the base of James’s coat to find the lump that means he does not have his car keys on him, wherever he is. I paid enough attention driving in to know that Wesley’s rented convertible is not near where Grigori has parked, so I hand the keys to her quickly, before Grigori and his backup see her.

“Go to your car, and leave the keys on top of the back passenger wheel for James. Then go to the silver SUV over there and wait for me. Stay low, out of sight.”

“Why? Where’s Mac?” she asks.

“I do not know, but we have to leave now. Go!”

She rushes off to do as I instructed and her lack of hesitation, at least, shows good sense.

It is ridiculous. James allows Grigori Folson to live, and he creates an enormous pain in my ass. Now I must also try to save the woman. This place is reasonably empty, true, but it is public. That is why I cannot make an attempt on Rossi’s life now—not while he eats with that old, corrupt man they made the mayor. I do not have enough knives on me, and I will not leave witnesses.

Related to that, I need to take care of these two men in a way that the people behind the restaurant in their homes will not hear or see. The only stroke of good fortune is that being in an area this conspicuous means I do not need to concern myself with guns.

Grigori Folson is not a small man—thugs for crime lords hardly ever are—but still I am larger. His partner is about the same size, so I know I can handle both at once. My gunshot graze is now barely a scratch and I have my full range of motion back.

I grip a knife in each hand and thumb them down my palm until they are in optimal position. Bloodlessly would be the better way to do this, but silently is most important. I trot along the side of the building, keeping my movements big enough and being loud enough to attract their notice. I know they see me when they change course, cutting across the pavement and heading right for me.

I slip around the back of the building—well away from all those fucking windows—and catch the man who is not Grigori Folson off guard. He was closer, or he was the faster runner—whichever the reason, he rounds the corner first and gets a throwing knife to the throat. He chokes on his scream of pain and terror, blood spilling down his neck and through the fingers he automatically tries to use to hold the wound closed.

He stumbles back, falling against Grigori, who shouts, “What the fuck?”

I throw the other knife, but Grigori is quick or lucky, because he moves the other man in front of him at the precisely wrong moment. A second knife joins the first in his friend’s throat. His body falls to the ground and Grigori charges me. I could grab more knives, but my backups are in less accessible areas and he is coming in fast.

His gun is barely up at chest height when I kick it from his grasp. It flies from his hand, landing several feet away. I let my leg’s momentum carry me around and plant that foot on the ground so I can deliver a donkey kick with my other. He staggers backwards, though he keeps his balance and does not fall all the way down. The force of my blow makes his body immediately empty his lungs. His breath is knocked out, and he gasps for air, unable to make his diaphragm work. But he recovers more quickly than I expected.

This man clearly has training, because he comes at me with no fear and plenty of confidence.

Which is a shame for him because I have more training. And I can tell he is left-handed.

Fists drawn, he throws a punch from the left that I duck to the side to avoid. While his fist is still outstretched, I bring my arm up to grip his wrist in the crook of my elbow, and come across my body with my left hand. It is my weaker arm, but the windpipe is surprisingly fragile, for something so important.

My blow does not land because he blocks it, hitting my arm away. He jerks backwards and I release him.

Enough of this.

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