Page 139 of Blood & Snow
He collapses backward, blood spreading beneath his body in a pattern that will require careful cleaning.
Another grenade detonates somewhere behind me, followed by the distinctive crack of rifle fire.
My men are methodically eliminating resistance, working through the warehouse with no room for mercy or mistake.
A figure moves in my peripheral vision—Sokolov soldier trying to flank my position through a gap in the shelving units.
I pivot and as I do I pull my pistol and fire, the bullet catching him in the throat.
He drops his weapon, hands clutching his neck as blood pours between his fingers.
He tries to speak, probably calling for help that won't come, but the wound prevents anything more than wet, gasping sounds.
I watch him die, noting how long it takes consciousness to fade and life to leave his eyes.
"Building secure," comes through my earpiece as the last gunshots fade to echoes.
Ivan and Igor have accomplished with our team what I could not do alone, but I'm in no mood to celebrate.
God would that I had a chance to do this over again.
I'd take my time and slit their throats one by one, exacting revenge for my battered heart on these sick fucks who made my life a living hell.
All because I can't control a fucking woman who shouldn’t even matter to me.
I walk through the warehouse, surveying the aftermath of the violence.
Bodies lie scattered across the floors in every area, their blood mixing with dust and debris to create a paste that will require harder work to remove completely.
Igor appears at my shoulder, his tactical vest stained with powder residue and someone else's blood.
"Clean sweep, Boss. No survivors."
I nod, checking each face among the dead.
Foot soldiers mostly, men whose names appear on our intelligence reports but carry no particular significance beyond their allegiance to Arkady Sokolov.
Their deaths bring us closer to the final reckoning that awaits at year's end.
"Casualties?" I ask.
"We lost one…" His head sinks.
"Rowan was hit by a grenade. And Leo took shrapnel in the arm, but he'll live."
Losing men in firefights is inevitable, but tonight's operation was supposed to be clean.
I sigh hard knowing I will have to report to Markov that we lost a man, probably to his wife that her husband fought bravely, but I can't let it deter me.
The job isn't finished yet.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Nadya's number, thumb hovering over the call button.
She should be sleeping in her sister's apartment, surrounded by normal things like family photographs and children's toys.
Clean things that exist outside the world of violence and retribution.
It's what she wants—I know that, and I'd love to give that to her.
