He recovers faster than expected, reaches for his gun again, but I'm already moving. I grab his wrist, twist until I hear his bone crack, and the gun clatters to the concrete.
"Wrong move."
I break him methodically. Ribs first—three, four, five rapid strikes that leave him gasping. Then his fingers, bending each one back until they snap. His nose, crushed flat against his face. Several of his teeth, knocked loose with calculated strikes.
He's begging within five minutes. Offering the original price, offering to pay immediately, but I don't stop.
The motherfucker was going to kill me and stroll out of here with my goods.
When his face is unrecognizable, and he's choking on his own blood, I grab his head with both hands.
"Don't fucking disrespect me."
Then I slam his skull into the concrete floor. Once. Twice. Three times until it cracks open and blood pools across the warehouse floor.
The door bursts open. His men rush in, see their boss's corpse, and reach for weapons.
Mikhail and my team are faster. Gunfire echoes. Bodies drop. Over in thirty seconds.
I look down at my hands. Ruslan's blood covers them, dripping from my knuckles, staining my shirt. His brain matter smears my forearms.
Satisfaction pulses through me. Pure and clean. This is what happens when people think they can fuck with me.
"Clean sweep," Mikhail confirms. "No survivors."
"Good. Return the weapons. Keep the money. Send their heads back to the Chechen network with a message from me."
It's nearly 3 AM when I get home.
The house is dark, save for the security lights. I should shower, burn these clothes, but there's a light on in the kitchen.
Voices drift down the hallway. One small and frightened. One soft and soothing.
I move toward them.
Mila sits at the kitchen table in her white nightgown, small face blotchy from crying. Valerie sits beside her, one hand gently rubbing circles on my daughter's back.
"—and the princess realized she was braver than she thought," Valerie's saying softly. "Because bravery isn't about not being scared. It's about being scared and doing the brave thing anyway."
"But what if I'm never not scared?" Mila's voice breaks. "What if I'm scared forever?"
"Then you'll be the bravest person I know." Valerie's hand doesn't stop its gentle motion. "Because being scared and still getting up every day? That's the hardest kind of courage."
Mila sees me first.
Her eyes go wide, and this sound escapes her, part gasp, part whimper, and her whole body goes rigid.
Valerie follows her gaze.
The blood drains from her face when she sees me.
I look down at myself. Shirt soaked with blood spatter. Hands stained. Probably blood on my face and in my hair.
I move toward the sink without a word. Valerie shifts instinctively, putting herself between Mila and me. Protecting a child from a monster.
Smart girl.
I turn on the water and start washing. Blood swirls down the drain—red, then pink, then red again. My knuckles are split open, stinging. I can feel them both watching. Mila with wide, frightened eyes. Valerie with something closer to horror.