Page 42 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Like everyone else defending this fortress, they’re ex-Mexican special forces, and they’ve got a lot of motivation to do their job right.

If they do it well, they get paid like kings.

If they do it poorly, them and everyone they love will end up headless in an unmarked grave.

The cartel dons don’t fuck around.

“You know what?” Cillian muses sarcastically, stroking the godawful beard he refuses to shave. “They do look pretty determined to keep enemies out. Let’s just call the whole thing off and go grab a margarita.”

“It’s not gettinginthat I’m worried about,” I remind him. “It’s getting back out.”

He knows damn well what’s got me keyed up tonight.

A straight-up takedown of the compound would be a cinch. I could pick those bastards off the wall from here myself with a night-vision sniper and have drones dropping bombs smack-dab in the middle of the courtyard while I did it.

I’d probably be able to stroll right through the front door.

But I know that the second the first bullet is fired, every man loyal to the cartel within a twenty-mile radius will come pouring in for backup.

And on top of that… there’s the retrieval target.

The retrieval mission that’s at the core of this whole goddamn trip.

Part of me wanted to say no. To tell Father to go fuck himself when he explained the details to me.

But the Bratva comes first—always.

And tonight, that means getting what I came for.

“I just sent in a report to Budimir,” Cillian tells me. “I told him we’re preparing to move.”

I nod. “Did he say anything else?”

“He asked about you.”

“Which means that Stanislav asked about me.”

“This is a big assignment,” Cillian points out. “He wouldn’t have entrusted you with it if he didn’t believe you could handle it.”

I glance towards Cillian. I’m grateful that he always seemed to have my back, no matter what.

As much as he annoys the hell out of me sometimes—often, as a matter of fact, and usually on purpose—he’s as loyal as they come.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence,” I mutter.

He puts a hand on his chest. “Oh, you’ve got it all wrong—I know you’re gonna fuck this up ten ways to Sunday, but Stanislav didn’t ask me for my—”

I swat him in the head with a gloved hand as he falls back laughing.

Asshat.

I laugh under my breath and shake my head. Some things never change.

Picking up my night-vision binoculars, I do another scan of the walls. I check my watch as I go.

Everything here works like clockwork. The same patrols, the same lights switching on and off at the same times.

Which means that, in precisely fifteen seconds, a pair of guards holding AK-47s will round the upper west corner.

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