Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
"He's coming out," the kid mutters, hanging up the phone.
"About fuckin' time," Kincaid says.
Roman pulls his truck to the curb and puts it in park but leaves the engine running. Kincaid and I climb out, slamming our doors. Roman stays in the driver's seat so we can make a quick escape if Tarasova decides to pull anything. I don't think he's that stupid though. It's one thing to send his men after a woman no one knows. It would be suicide for him to try to take down a cop and two federal agents. Every agency from LAPD to the FBI would rip this neighborhood apart.
Tarasova steps outside a few moments later.
"Hijo de puta," I snarl, taking a step in his direction when my gaze lands on Victor Milonov, who steps out behind Tarasova. Rage slices through me so hard and fast my head throbs as my blood pressure skyrockets. I'm going to kill him. "¡Voy a matarlo!"
"Chill," Kincaid says under his breath, blocking me with his arm. "Let me handle this shit, Hernandez."
I clench my hands into tight fists, trying to beat back the wave of fury demanding I pull my gun and end Milonov here and now. He's not walking away from what he did tonight. Kincaid is in for a surprise if he thinks that's going to happen. I won't allow it.
Tarasova and Milonov jog down the steps and head toward us. Milonov is maybe six feet, with a bald head. He's bulky with a barrel chest, not quite fat but not muscular either. He looks exactly like the violent Bratva prick he is. Tattoos crawl up his neck, blaring his allegiance to Russia and Tarasova.
He catches sight of me as they head our way, but he doesn't so much as blink. He's stone cold, exactly as Faith described him. He knows who I am though. I see the brief flare of recognition in his blue eyes.
Tarasova is pissed, his blue eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. He looks far younger than he is, closer to fifty than creeping through his mid-sixties. He dresses like a fucking businessman, wearing an expensive Italian suit even at four in the goddamn morning. It's all bullshit. He's savage, vicious…more than willing to commit any number of crimes just because he can.
"Agent Kincaid," he says, drawing to a stop several feet from us. Ire flashes in his eyes. "Is there any particular reason you're in my neighborhood harassing me?"
Rage digs its claws into my back, sending fury screaming through my veins. I charge toward him, planting my gun against the side of his head. I want to rip his throat out; repay every ounce of terror and grief he gave Faith. Even then, it won't be enough. Until he's buried six feet under, the shadow of his presence completely eliminated from her life, it won't be enough.
"You dirty motherfucker," I growl, breathing hard as I slam him up against the side of an SUV. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't pull the fucking trigger."
Tarasova holds my gaze, not flinching. "Just one, Detective Hernandez?" His gaze flickers over my shoulder to the kids standing on the porch. "You mean other than the dozen witnesses watching right now?"
"Hernandez, this is not you letting me handle it," Kincaid says. He doesn't sound too fucked up about it, though.er
"You tortured her for years, you piece of shit." I shove the gun harder against Tarasova's temple, fighting like hell not to pull the trigger when that's exactly what I want to do. Cristo, I want him dead and gone so badly I can taste it. But it's not enough.
If he dies, one of his people will simply step up and take over. They'll still be here, still doing the same shit they did to Faith. She won't be any freer than she is right now. Until every single one of them is dead, behind bars, or back in Russia, she'll always be looking over her shoulder.
Tarasova says nothing. He doesn't beg for his life. That's beneath him. But anger glitters in the depths of his eyes. He'd kill me right now if he could. Too goddamn bad for him, that's not going to happen.
"Your life is over, Tarasova," I warn him. "And Faith Donovan ended it." I jerk the gun away from his temple, turning it on Milonov. "And you're going to die tonight, pendejo."
Milonov actually smiles at me like he thinks I told a joke.
"You done yet?" Kincaid asks me.
I jerk my chin in a nod, stepping back to where he's lounging against the side of the truck like an indolent king. My heart pounds, fury still coursing through me. Cristo, I want to pull the trigger and end them both. I keep my gun trained on Milonov instead, and my eyes on Tarasova.
"Good, because I came to deliver news," Kincaid says, staring right at Tarasova.