Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
And completely fucking irrelevant.
“Five minutes,” I tell him. “Give me five minutes alone with Julian before your team moves in.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You know I’m going in either way. With or without your help.” I meet his eyes. “But if you work with me, we can use Julian’s obsession to our advantage. He’s waiting for me. Let’s give him what he wants.”
Knox stares at me for a long moment. I can practically see him running scenarios, weighing options. Finally, he mutters a curse.
“Four minutes.” He pulls a palm-size device from his vest. “And you wear this. It’s a tracker with a panic button. You press it, we come in hot. You don’t press it within four minutes, we come in hot anyway.”
I take the device. “The Russians?”
“My team will handle them. You just . . .” He shakes his head. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“When have I ever?”
“You really want me to answer that?” He signals to his team. “Move into final positions. Radio silence from here on.”
He grabs my arm before I can move. “You get her out. That’s your only job. You don’t try to settle scores, you don’t try to be a hero. You get her clear, and my team handles the rest.”
I nod, though we both know it’s a lie. Five years of waiting, of planning, of building toward this moment . . . Julian and I have unfinished business that goes beyond Sloane, beyond the designs, beyond everything that’s happened tonight.
“One more thing,” Knox says, his voice dropping. “Julian’s men put something in that SUV before you got here. We haven’t had time to check what it is.”
“Probably her designs,” I say, already turning away. “He’ll want to take them when he runs.”
“Or it’s a bomb,” Knox says bluntly. “Don’t get tunnel vision, Cole. Julian doesn’t just want you to show up. He wants you to die doing it.”
I watch them disappear into the shadows around the estate. Professionals doing what they do best. But they don’t know Julian like I do. Don’t know the darkness he’s capable of. Don’t know how many lives he’s destroyed while maintaining that perfect, polished smile.
I check my watch one last time. Almost dawn.
Time to end this.
My earpiece crackles. “Team One in position. First guard neutralized.”
“Team Two,” comes another voice. “East perimeter secure.”
I don’t respond. They’re not talking to me anyway. I’m already moving toward the house, keeping to the shadows of the manicured garden.
I spot the first Russian before he sees me—a hulking figure patrolling the rear entrance. His partner is nowhere in sight. Sloppy. Julian’s standards are slipping.
The man reaches for his radio, probably checking in with his missing comrade. That’s when Knox’s team strikes—quick, efficient, silent. The man is subdued without a sound. I continue toward the house.
Through the kitchen window, I can see two more of Julian’s men hurriedly loading cases into the waiting SUV. Sloane’s designs. My jaw tightens, but I force myself to stay focused. The designs can be replaced. Sloane can’t.
The first floor is empty except for one guard, who Knox’s team has already restrained and secured.
I pause at the base of the grand staircase, listening. There—voices from the study. Julian’s voice, then Sloane’s. The relief of hearing her alive nearly makes me miss the sound of footsteps behind me.
I spin just as the fourth Russian emerges from the shadows, weapon already raised. I dive for cover as his shot goes wide, splintering the wooden banister beside me. Before either of us can fire again, one of Knox’s team appears and subdues the man with a precise takedown. The Russian slumps to the floor, unconscious. I nod gratefully to Knox’s team member as I step over the incapacitated guard.
Knox’s voice buzzes in my earpiece. “Status?”
“I’m in,” I breathe, keeping my voice low. “Proceeding to target.”
“We’ve got movement at the east entrance,” Knox reports. “Two more hostiles loading cases into a vehicle.”
“Let them,” I say. “Sloane first.”
I make my way down the corridor, staying close to the wall. The gunshot will have alerted Julian. The element of surprise is gone. But so is his patience. He’ll be desperate now, dangerous. And Sloane is caught in the middle.
Drawing a deep breath, I steady myself.
Julian’s been waiting all night for this moment, orchestrating every detail. I step into the study, the same one where I first met Claire five years ago. Where I watched her show Julian her latest designs, desperate for his approval. Where I stood, three months later, as the police asked their careful questions about her accident.
“I was starting to think you weren’t coming.” Julian’s voice drifts from the back of the room. Calm. Controlled. A perfect host welcoming an expected guest.
I follow his voice, each step measured. Not rushing. Not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me desperate.
Julian stands by the fireplace, drink in hand, looking for all the world like this is a casual social call. And there, in one of the leather wingback chairs, is Sloane. Her wrists are bound with what looks like one of Julian’s Italian silk ties. Her eyes meet mine, and the relief I see there nearly breaks my control.