Page 18 of Exacting Vengeance

He tucked his overshirt behind his belt, revealing his badge so he wouldn’t get drilled by any of the cops swarming into the area. “Everyone, follow me. Keep your hands in the air. Don’t run, and don’t leave the area. The police will want to ask you some questions.” He opened the door and held his hands above his head. The second his boss caught sight of him, the man’s eyes narrowed to angry slits, confirming what Kyle expected. He was in for an ass-reaming of epic proportions. Disobeying protocol and going into the bank alone was bad enough. That was only part of why Mike was so pissed.

Kyle stepped onto the sidewalk and drew a long, resigned breath as he approached his boss. This wasn’t the first time he’d risked his life. It hadn’t been the second time, either.

If it were possible, Mike’s lips pursed tighter. He’d be lucky if he didn’t get chained to a desk for six months and forced to spill his guts to a shrink about his death-wish tendencies.

Slowly, he lowered his hands. “Boss⁠—”

“Don’t.” Mike shook his head, flattening his lips more. “Just. Don’t. You can send in your statement to the NYPD later. I’ll cover for you here. The only things I want you to do now are to turn in your firearm and get your ass back to 26 Fed. And don’t miss that meeting this morning. Somehow, I have to miraculously convene a shooting review board out of thin air and get them to clear you in less than a week.”

At this point, virtual steam was shooting out of Mike’s ears. Deke and Jack wisely gave them space.

“Yes, sir.” Discreetly, he tugged his weapon from the holster and handed it over. “The perp’s gun,” he said, handing that gun over, too.

Mike stuck Kyle’s Glock and the Smith & Wesson in his waistband. “Now get out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” he repeated and headed back to his Explorer, weaving through the fleet of emergency vehicles that had completely blocked off Broadway. Sirens screamed from every direction as a seemingly endless stream of emergency vehicles continued pouring into the block.

Kyle understood Mike’s concerns. He’d just created a mile high pile of shit for his boss to wade through.

Boris Kolbayev’s trial started next week. With a protected witness to squirrel safely in and out of the courthouse, there was a boatload of tactical and logistical coordination to go over. After a shooting, he’d be on the rubber gun squad until the review board cleared him. For the trial, he had to be fully cleared for active duty. He’d been through a shooting review before, though never at such a critical juncture.

He got into the SUV but didn’t turn the key. It felt like there was a fifty-pound weight pressing against his chest.

In a bizarre twist of fate, Viktoria Petrova had saved his life today. Thinking of her again had made him want to live. Or, at least, to not die. He’d saved her life once, too, but it had cost him. It had cost them both.

He turned the key and put his hands on the wheel. They should have been shaking—a normal physiological response to shooting two men and coming a hair’s breadth from being killed himself. His hands were rock-steady. He was going numb. There was always the remote possibility all the normal PTSD signs would come later. Kyle didn’t think so. Risking his life, at times not caring if it ended and going on with his job and life as if everything were normal…

Was becoming routine. That wasn’t normal.

He didn’t know which would be worse, dealing with his boss and the shooting review board, or his brothers. He huffed at the irony. FBI policy dictated any agent involved in a critical incident such as a shooting had to submit to a wellness check with a psychologist. The meeting Mike had ordered him not to miss was with a shrink. For his key witness, not for him.

Kyle spun the Explorer in a U-turn, slowing to watch paramedics in front of the bank examine the little girl in the ballerina dress. Her mother stood next to the gurney, holding the girl’s hand.

Watching them triggered a soul-wrenching ache inside him that he’d thought was long buried.

Because of his actions today, this mother and child had been saved. But he’d never forgive himself for what he’d done.

When his actions had resulted in the death of his own family.

Chapter Nine

This could very well be a major mistake, yet another in a long list of bad life decisions. Victoria stared up at the ominous black-tinted windows of 26 Federal Plaza. Her heart raced, and her palms began to sweat. No matter how hard she tried, her feet wouldn’t move. Why had she ever agreed to this in the first place?

Accepting this assignment was definitely a mistake, but she had to help Aly—Alyona Kolbayev—through this. Her job was to keep Aly on an emotionally even keel, and that was proving to be a challenge. Aly was about to face her abusive husband in court.

Boris Kolbayev was a brigadier—the equivalent of a lieutenant, so she’d learned—in the Brighton Beach Bratva, also known as the Odessa Mafia. Boris Kolbayev had committed a string of crimes, including extortion, burglary, and murder. Initially, all the charges had been dropped due to convenient alibis provided by his wife, Aly. Miraculously, the FBI had convinced her to testify against him. Shortly after the prosecution had transmitted their witness list to the defense, Aly started receiving anonymous telephone threats. The FBI moved their star witness to a safehouse, where she nearly suffered an emotional breakdown and began having second thoughts about testifying.

That was the only reason why Victoria was about to walk into the FBI building. She could do this. She and Aly. Kind people had once helped her, and she was determined to do the same for Aly.

The blustery hot wind whipped her hair, slapping her cheeks as surely as if someone had smacked her. A sidewalk vendor opened the lid on his cart, and the sweet scent of honey-roasted peanuts spiraled to her nose. Normally she loved that smell. Today it made her stomach roil. She’d thought she was past this kind of anxiety. Apparently not.

Taking a job in New York City had been a risk, but she’d had no choice. Not if she wanted her dream of becoming a licensed psychologist to come true. Starting over with less than nothing meant money was beyond tight. When she’d gotten enough of her life together, she’d applied to Winona State University’s master’s program, but could barely afford a roof over her head and had to eat Ramen noodles three times a day. The only reason for being here in New York was that Brad Evans Psychology had agreed to pay for her doctorate after she completed a four-year stint with them as a social worker.

Taking a deep breath, she headed down the short flight of stairs to the main entrance. Unable to stop herself, she looked over her shoulder and searched the faces of those in line waiting to get into the building. She was overreacting again, and it had to stop. This wasn’t Chicago. Virtually no one here knew her. That hadn’t stopped her from being terrified when Brad had assigned her Aly’s case and given her the background investigation form all FBI contractors are required to fill out. Thus far, she’d managed to avoid working on any of Brad’s FBI contracts. She’d tried declining gracefully, but he’d insisted. God only knew how she’d passed the background check.

Bile rose in her throat, and she had to keep swallowing as she cast one last glance over her shoulder before going inside. Thankfully, no one looked familiar. She pushed through the revolving door. The soft hum of voices was occasionally interrupted by magnetometers beeping out an objection. When it was her turn to pass through the security checkpoint, she placed her briefcase on the conveyor belt and walked through. The machine stayed silent, and she retrieved her bag. She almost laughed at the look the security cop gave her ratty old briefcase. It wasn’t pretty, but it did the job.

Following the directions she’d been given, she headed to a corner of the lobby. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades as she felt the burn of watching eyes. Why was everyone staring at her? Stop it. They aren’t.