Raelyn was always the contingency.
I crouch in front of him, grip his jaw, force his eyes to mine. He’s sobbing now. Not remorse. Fear.
I raise the gun.
“Where’s Markov?”
He shakes his head wildly. “Please—please, Konstantin. I did what I had to. I was just the middle—”
The barrel presses into his forehead.
“Where.”
His breath stutters. He caves.
“Here,” he blurts. “He’s here. Lower level. East wing. Old cold storage—behind the generator room. Please—please, I told you everything. I told you—”
The moment the words leave his mouth, the decision is already made.
I pull the trigger.
The sound is sharp. Final.
Reed collapses backward, unfinished mid-breath, blood dark against concrete. I don’t look at him again.
I stand, adjust my grip on the weapon, and turn toward the corridor he indicated.
Markov is in this building.
And this war ends now.
I move fast, heading to the lower level east wing, just as Reed described. The warehouse opens into a cavernous back section, moonlight slanting through high, broken windows. Then I see movement.
A figure at the far end—already mid-motion, already running.
Adrian Markov.
Tall. Lean. Too composed for a man who knows he’s about to die. Dark coat flaring behind him, expensive even now. Hair slicked back, face sharp and foxlike. He moves with the confidence of someone who has escaped worse than this before.
He doesn’t look back.
He leaps.
“Markov!”
I fire.
The shot takes him in the shoulder. He screams—raw, animal—but momentum carries him through the massive window. Glass explodes outward as he disappears.
I sprint. Vault the debris. Reach the window just in time to see him hit the ground hard, roll, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He staggers up and runs for a black car idling behind the building.
I fire again.
The bullet clips his side. Another scream. He stumbles, but he doesn’t stop.
I jump.
The impact jars my spine as I hit the ground. I’m already raising the gun as he throws himself into the driver’s seat and slams the door.