The charcoal Armani suit is pristine, the white shirt crisp, the tie perfectly knotted. I smooth a hand over my hair, checking for any stray strands. Even in a place like this, standards must be maintained.
As the sun sets behind the hills, casting shades of burnt orange and deep purple across the fields of animals, it's finally time to end this part of our conflict. Remove him and focus on the Volkovs.
Adrian wanted to do this himself, but after tonight, he'll have a new fiancée to look after, so I'll consider this an early wedding present. It's my turn to handle the dirty work.
Once it's dark, I put on my black leather gloves, flexing my fingers to test the fit. I check the handgun tucked into my shoulder holster, the suppressor nestled in my inside pocket, and the lock pick kit in my breast pocket. Everything is in place.
I slide out of the car, easing the door shut with barely a sound. I cross the dirt road and jump the waist-high stone fence easily, landing in a crouched position on the other side.
I stay low, moving through the overgrown grass and weeds toward the house. The place seems a bit run down for a wealthy man, but I guess that's the point of the place.
I pass the window and glance up briefly. Cornel sits in a chair, his back to me, staring at something I can't see. His gray hair is thin, combed over in a pathetic attempt to hide his balding scalp.
I duck down and make my way around back, toward the rear entrance I scoped out yesterday. The lock is old, and it takes me less than ten seconds to pick it. The door pops open with a click.
I pull out my gun and screw on the silencer, the metal threads catching smoothly.
Time to interrogate the traitor and execute him for Adrian and Elena.
Stepping inside, I quietly shut the door behind me and find myself standing in a small kitchen. There are dishes in the sink, a few plates crusted with dried food. A pan sits on the stove, with cold grease congealed at the bottom.
I take a few steps forward, my shoes silent on the rug. The TV is on somewhere deeper in the house, the sound muffled but audible. I move slowly, my gun raised and ready.
The hallway is narrow, the walls lined with faded floral wallpaper. I pass a bathroom, a bedroom with an unmade bed, and the TV I heard is on the local news.
I keep going, toward the room I saw him in from the window. When I reach the doorway, I pause and listen. Nothing.
I push the door open with the barrel of my gun, and there he is.
Cornel Lupu, sitting in the chair I saw him in. He hasn't moved.
"Ei bine, uite cine?—"
I stop mid-sentence.
The room is a disaster. Papers are tossed everywhere, scattered across the floor. A lamp lies on its side, the bulb shattered. A filing cabinet has been overturned, its contents spilled across the rug.
And Cornel's hands are tied to the chair.
Rope binds his wrists to the armrest, and his head lies to one side, his mouth hanging open.
Then the metallic smell of blood hits me.
I tense as I step further into the room, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. Cornel's dead. His eyes stare blankly at the wall, and there's dried blood that runs from a single bullet wound just above his left ear.
But who could have beaten me to this?
The Volkovs? Are they cleaning up their loose ends?
I keep my gun raised and take another step, scanning the area.
I lean over and inspect the wound. The shot was clean. Execution style, for sure.
Suddenly, I hear it.
The unmistakable, heavy click of a gun hammer locking back directly behind my ear.
Before I can pivot, the cold steel barrel of a gun presses directly against the base of my skull.