Page 74 of Assassin: Part 1

“You fucking cunt, I’ll kill you for that!” the Butcher roars, a mild pain to his voice.

“Nothing vital,” Nikita whispers. “What do you want to do?”

Caution tells me going into this now is only going to get us killed. Another pained cry echoes down the hall, followed by a thud. I open my mouth to order him to move in, but the footsteps thundering down the hall behind us have us whirling on more of Timur’s men rushing toward us.

“Motherfuckers are jacked up on something,” Nikita gripes, tossing down his knife to pull his guns. I mimic the move and fire.

Nothing like announcing our presence. I take out two on my own, clean shots to the forehead, while the third uses one of them as a shield. I’ll give him points for ingenuity, but between Nikita and me making the body Swiss cheese with our sprays of bullets, he only gets another five feet before he collapses.

“I hope like hell when you take them over, you’re going to let us beat some sense into whoever survives,” Nikita gripes. “These fuckers either were never trained, or they’re on shit that makes them do it all fucking wrong.”

I have to agree. “We need to move. If they get to Rori, we’re done.” He nods. “Move it and we keep quiet. Don’t kill Timur Belov. He’s mine.”

I’ve been waiting far too long for this moment to have it taken away from me now.

“Fine with me.”

I grab my knife from the floor, easing to the corner to peer around, and the sight that greets me nearly has me dropping my knife.

The hall is littered with even more bodies, including Simeon lying on his back, blood dripping from his mouth, his throat obliterated by a bullet. Farther down, Timur slumps against the wall, reaching up to hold his head. He’s alive, cuts and bruises forming, but that’s not what shocks me.

Standing near the door is a man I recognize as Pasha Antonov facing down Rori, who is glaring up at him, her face cut and bruised and her cheek swelling slightly. Her chest heaves with each breath, her face slack with exhaustion, but her body is braced, ready to move at the least provocation.

Though that probably has to do with the woman behind her, gun barrel pressed tight to the back of her head. She’s the spitting image of Rori before the dye job Rori gave herself the other night, with bleached-blonde hair cut in the same bob-style. There’s no mistaking her eyes. The same bright blue that looked at me with desire and jealousy as she pressed the lighter to my bed.

The very woman who rescued Mila.

Fucked me in my office and drugged me before escaping into the night.

Tied me to the bed and set it on fucking fire.

Who stole my fucking plane and sent me videos of herself with the dildo copy of my dick.

What the fuck is she doing here? My gut feels like it’s full of lead, the implications smashing into my chest like a hammer. The tension rises, and the bubble bursts when I finally force myself to listen to the conversation. To really hear the final nail in the coffin.

My stalker says, “Hello again, Ms. O’Brien. Or should I call you sister now?”

Sister? This is Rayea-fucking-Antonova’s sister? A daughter of the Bratva Butcher?

My mind whirls as I try to process what I’ve just heard. Trying to uncover what the hell is going on. No, this can’t be right. She’s working with the Bratva Butcher? As a fucking assassin?

All the pieces click into place, and I hate myself for taking this long to figure it out. For letting her get under my skin so much I didn’t even consider it a possibility.

The constant appearance changes. The insanity. The ability to get in and out of my house without being detected or spotted. Stealing my damn plane. All of it.

I let her in. I let her weave her spell around me and make me utterly blind to what was right in my face.

Motherfucker, Zakhar and Oleg really are going to kill me when they find out about this.

“Pakhan, you need to answer these fuckers through the comms. That Italian is going to blow this entire fucking thing if he comes barreling up here.” Nikita’s whispered warning pulls me out of my thoughts, and I force myself to pay attention.

“Someone tell him where the fuck she is so he stops yelling in my fucking ear!” Oleg yells through the line. “Zakhar, Ilya, you got eyes on Timur?”

“Not yet. I haven’t seen the fucker,” Zakhar gripes.

“Ilya?” Alonzo demands, panic seeping through.

No point in sugarcoating it. “We’ve got a problem,” I mutter, easing back around the corner.