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"He disappeared after I refused to pay his blackmail!" Eddie gasped for air. "I hired investigators. I tried everything. He's gone!"

Viktor's voice crackled through the speaker. "Then you are useless to me. Kill him."

The interrogator pulled his Makarov.

"Wait!" Eddie's voice cracked with desperation. "Wait! I have information! I do!"

The gun paused six inches from Eddie's forehead.

“Russell has a stepsister. Sophie. They’re close.”

The Russians looked at each other. This seemed like new information to them. It had to be, or they would have gone after her before now.

"And I know about his other target! Kit Lord, the actress! He's blackmailing her too!"

My blood turned to ice.

The second Russian—leaner, colder eyes—leaned against the table. "Tell us something useful about her or die."

Eddie talked faster, words tumbling over each other. "I hired a private investigator to find her! She was hiding in Tennessee! Small town called Jasper Creek! The investigator tracked her through her friend Angelica Drakos!"

No. No, no, no.

"Jasper Creek, Tennessee." Viktor's voice sharpened with interest. "The actress is there now?"

"I don't know! The PI lost track of her a few days ago, but that's where she was! He was asking around town, but nobody would talk to him. Some old woman fed him crazy stories about Hulk Hogan and Elvis!"

Little Grandma. God bless her sly heart.

The interrogator raised the Makarov again, pressing it against Eddie's temple.

No choice now. Sophie and Katherine exposed, Jasper Creek compromised.

I pulled the Sig Sauer, braced against the catwalk railing, and fired.

Two shots. Center mass. The interrogator dropped.

The lean Russian spun toward the sound. I put one in his chest before he could draw his weapon.

The third Russian went for his gun. I shot him in the shoulder, watched him stagger, then put one in his head.

Eight seconds. Three targets down.

Training. Muscle memory. Twenty years of this.

Viktor's voice erupted from the speaker phone. "What's happening? Report! What was that shooting?"

I descended the catwalk stairs, each step agony, and crossed to the table. Grabbed the phone. Viktor was shouting in Russian now, demanding answers.

I disconnected the call and pocketed the phone.

Eddie slumped in the chair, barely conscious, staring at me with terrified confusion through swollen eyes. Blood dripped from his chin.

I checked his pulse. Strong enough. Breathing ragged but steady. The injuries looked bad but survivable if he got medical attention soon.

I pulled out my burner phone and dialed 911.

"Emergency services, what's your⁠—"