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Resolved, I finish my shower, dress, and head to my desk to review the list the cartel sent over. There can be no mistakes. Not tonight.

“Snipers are in position,” Zakhar announces, lifting his gaze from his phone. “Oleg’s got everyone in position, and he said you’re right, the cartel is trying to pull a fast one. They sent some slimy fucker to oversee the shipment, and he’s already counted two extra boxes. Small, attempting to be concealed in the pile so you’d never notice them.”

Irritation has me clenching my jaw, but I nod. It’s nothing less than I expected. “Probably expecting the whole thing to get stopped at the border and then they can pull out of our deal. We’ll inspect every fucking box, and I want their actual liaison found. He’s around, because he won’t risk this shit to a lackey.”

Zakhar nods. “On it. Oh, and how about you don’t make my job fucking harder and actually stay behind while I do mine this time?” He gives me a pointed glare. “That shit you pulled with the Armenians last time almost got us both killed.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“I got a bullet in the fucking ass for that, so no, I sure as hell am not.”

“It was a graze, which is surprising with how big your ass has gotten in the last few months. Lay off the squats, or I’ll have to forklift in a fucking bolder for you sit on in the office.”

He lets out a snort, but the glare is gone and replaced by a grin. “We both know you’re just jealous you can’t have this body, brother. What, afraid your stalker will want me soon instead of you?”

I ignore the mention of her. This obsession with finding her, with making her pay has to stop. I can’t allow her any more of my attention.

“Just tell whatever personal trainer you’re fucking now to stop with their obsession of your ass turning to stone. Unless you’re planning on sitting on the people that run from you, you’re going to be slow and get yourself killed. And I don’t need to explain that to Mila.”

“Mila would probably thank you. And you mean my ex-personal trainer. She wanted a relationship, I said no, she tried to drop a weight on my head in retaliation, so yeah, that’s done. Now I’m working out with a guy named Kirk. Bodybuilder champion, and trust me, I have no interest in sucking his dick. Fucker can’t be more than an inch on a good day. Steroids probably, and I don’t need that shit.”

“Do I want to know how you know that? No, don’t answer that. And of course she tried to kill you. And considering the type you gravitate toward, maybe it’s you that needs to increase security to keep crazy stalkers from killing you.”

“Nah, I got the company to transfer her.” He grins wickedly. “She was pissed, but she’s in Florida now. Her crazy is better suited there. Now my attention is on a sweet thing that needed a bit of help the other day with her set. Got a pair of lips that look like she could suck a golf ball through a straw.”

I sigh and ignore him. My brother is a horndog. He and Oleg. Though Oleg has the decency to be quiet and somewhat secretive about it. At least I don’t have to worry about whoever he ends up pissing off coming to try and kill him afterward.

Except for that one time, but we were all young and stupid.

“Here we go,” Zakhar murmurs, rubbing his hands together like some kind of evil movie villain.

When we enter the warehouse, it’s cool, dim, and full of crates. Oleg has scattered all the boxes in the pallets, and my men are opening the covers of every single one. The slimeball the cartel sent is raging, screaming in Spanish, as his men look around, confused and unsure.

They’re outgunned, and they know it.

“Enough!” I bellow, silencing the room. They all spin to look at me. Zakhar is at my back, with Oleg sliding in beside him, and Freya at his side. It’s the exact thing I want them to see.

Power. Danger. The view of someone you do not fuck with.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demand, staring down at the short Hispanic man looking at me with wide, uncertain eyes. He speaks in Spanish again, but I bark, “English or shut the fuck up.”

He sputters, but a low growl from Freya makes him rethink that idea. Finally, the slimy asshole spits, “You have insulted us. Tricked us. I will tell Miguel that you did this. He will not tolerate disrespect.” He curses me in Spanish, but I ignore him. I tip my head to Zakhar, who makes his way over to the crates, finding the small ones that were hidden.

Slimeball’s curses stop, and his face pales.

“It seems we need to have a little chat about not trying to fucking trick me. Did you really think I wouldn’t inspect everything?” I look at Slimeball again, and he’s practically shitting his pants, realizing he’s failed whatever test the cartel gave him.

“Pakhan.” Zakhar’s tone is full of barely contained anger.

He’s holding the small crate, and inside, is a small bomb counting down from seventy-two hours. About the time it was going to go over the border.

I barely turn, and a loud shot fills the air. Slimeball falls to the ground, dead, hand in his pocket.

Shouts and orders fill the room, Oleg yelling and demanding who fired the shot. No one answers. I move to the now-dead man bleeding all over the cement floor from the hole on his forehead, and carefully extract his hand from his pocket. Reaching in, I find the small remote, the one that would have detonated and killed Zakhar had he been able to fire it.

A cold sliver slides down my back. The cartel wouldn’t do this and possibly wreck an alliance they were seeking.

So who the fuck planted the bomb? Does Timur or the Bratva Butcher know about Simeon’s plan?