Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“Of course,” I reply, also speaking Russian.
Stopping by the coffee table next to the couch where Anton is sitting, I take off my leather jacket and remove the arsenal of weapons attached to my vest. When I go see Sara, I only bring one gun and a couple of knives with me, all strategically hidden in the inner pockets of my jacket so she doesn’t spot them when I’m dressing or undressing. I don’t want to scare her or remind her of what I am; she’s too intimately acquainted with my skills as is. Besides, I’d be an idiot to trust her around real weapons.
Even a novice can fire a gun and score a lucky shot.
“Yan will be taking the first shift tonight,” Anton says, turning his attention back to the computer on his lap. “I have to work out some of the logistics for this Mexico job.”
I frown as I remove my bulletproof vest. “I thought we had everything ready.”
“Yeah, I thought so too, but it seems Velazquez got into a little altercation with your old buddy Esguerra, and he’s beefing up security like crazy. I think he’s expecting an attack from Esguerra. Has nothing to do with us, obviously, but still. Complicates matters.”
“Fuck.” Julian Esguerra’s involvement, however indirect, definitely complicates matters, and not just because he inadvertently spooked our target. The Colombian arms dealer holds a serious grudge against me. Though I saved the bastard’s life, I endangered his wife in the process, and that’s not something he’ll ever forgive. He’s not actively hunting me down, but if he catches word that I’m in Mexico, so close to his turf, he might make good on his promise to kill me.
Come to think of it, I’m close to his turf here in Illinois, too. His wife’s parents live in Oak Lawn, not too far from Sara’s place in Homer Glen. I doubt he’ll visit here anytime soon, but if he does, and our paths cross somehow, I may have no choice but to deal with him.
Oh, well. I’ll worry about that if it happens. There’s no way I’m leaving here until I’m done with Sara.
“Yeah,” Anton mutters, glowering at the computer. “Fuck, indeed.”
I leave him to it and head into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. Today, I handled a local job personally, leaving Yan’s twin brother Ilya to watch over Sara, and I’m still hopped up on adrenaline, my senses extra sharp and my mind starkly clear. It’s strange that killing can make one feel so alive, but it does.
As anyone in my field of work knows, life and death are but a slice of a blade apart, and wielding that blade is one of the greatest thrills there is.
I gulp down half a bottle of beer, eat a handful of nuts from a bowl on the counter, and go back to the living room. In a little bit, I’ll head over to Sara’s house to make dinner for us, and the snack should tide me over until then. Before that, however, Anton and I have to catch up.
The Mexico job is a big one, and we can’t afford to fuck it up.
“So what’s the latest?” I ask, sitting down next to Anton on the couch. Placing my beer on the coffee table, I peer at the computer screen. “How much of our plan are we going to have to scrap?”
“Pretty much all of it,” Anton growls. “The guards’ schedules are a mess, there are new security cameras everywhere, and Velazquez is instituting patrols around the compound perimeter.”
“All right. Let’s get to it.”
Over the next hour, we come up with a new plan of attack on Velazquez, one that takes into account the heavier security on his compound. Instead of coming in to assassinate him at night, as originally planned, we’re going to go in at lunchtime because that’s when only a few newbie guards will be on watch. It’s stupid, but most people, including Mexican cartel leaders who should know better, feel safer in the daytime. It’s one of the most common problems I’ve encountered during my security consultant days, and I’ve always advised my clients to have equally strong protections in place regardless of whether the sun is up or down.
“Did the transfer go through?” I ask when we’re done, and Anton nods.
“Seven million euros as agreed, with the other half to come upon job completion. Should keep us in beer and peanuts for a while.”
I chuckle dryly. Anton and two other members of my old team—the Ivanov twins—joined me two years ago, after I got my list and approached them for help, promising to make them wealthy in return for throwing in their lot with me. They agreed, both out of friendship and because they’d been growing increasingly disillusioned with the Russian government. With the team in place, I switched from security consulting to more lucrative—and flexible—wet work, using my connections to get high-paying gigs for us. I needed the money to finance my revenge and stay ahead of the authorities, and the guys needed a new challenge. While elimination of the people on my list took priority, we carried out a number of paid hits along the way and built up our reputation in the underworld. Now we specialize in eliminating difficult targets all over the world and get paid enormous sums of money for jobs everyone else is too scared to touch. Most often, our clients are dangerous, insanely rich criminals, and our targets tend to be that too—like Carlos Velazquez, head of the Juarez Cartel.