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“You’re going to find all the files he had on every single one of us. The notes he made on our progress and our mistakes. The punishments doled out and why they worked the best. His favorites. Both as students and open holes to use whenever he felt like. Boys and girls. He wasn’t picky. He’s also going to have information on every family, every customer he worked with directly or attempted to. The ones he murdered for getting in his way. And in that is going to be plenty about his own children and how they’ve disappointed him. It’s everything he’s ever prized, Mishka. To him, information was power. Strength was secondary, but it certainly helped.”

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Mishka look stricken. He stares at me and then across the room at the bed, the stirrups, the medical equipment, tools, and instruments straight out of a medieval torture chamber. When his gaze lands on the pictures, he pales.

Thousands of them. Small polaroids, four or five deep, pinned with brightly colored pins. A system I’ve come to understand but won’t repeat.

“Lane,” he breathes, finally looking at me.

“It’s over, Mishka. I’m not dwelling on it, and neither should you.”

“I never realized …”

“No one did. Everyone thought that everything happened at the school. That was just one place. This is where his plans were born all those years ago. It’s the place that not even his eldest daughter knows about, and I won’t be telling her.”

Mishka slowly nods. “I really want to blow this place up.”

“Then it’s your lucky day. Start collecting, and once this place is clear, we’re going to blow it sky-high. Nothing will ever be found.”

When I’m finally back on the plane hours later, heading back to America, I look out the window and see the explosion clear as day. Then two more. There will be nothing left to find; my men will ensure it.

It’s over. Finally. Now I just have to figure out where my life goes from here and if that’s going to include Ilya or if he’s going to realize putting his cards on me is a risk he’s not willing to take.

40

LANE

LOCATION: UNKNOWN

“We’re already getting reports that multiple Pakhans have sent their men to look at the school site and surrounding areas,” Hunter announces, looking around the table, mouth set in a grim line. “And they are fucking pissed.”

“Excellent,” I say with a smug smile. “The news will get out soon, but for now, we keep on moving. Nothing slows us down. The school was only the first step, but it makes a big statement. The news of the deaths will circulate later today.”

“You’re really going to tell them the Bratva Butcher is dead?” Reaper asks. “Couldn’t we say we’ve captured him to keep them on edge?”

“They won’t believe he’ll be left alive. They know who and what he is. He’s had bounties on his head by different countries for years, and other crime groups who are pissed that he refused to work with them or double-crossed them. We give them proof; they start taking us more seriously. To them, we are unknown, and we make moves no one dares.” I smirk. “And that is what we use to keep them in line.”

“Yeah, about that,” Reaper says, leaning forward. “I’ve been thinking about this. Why do we need to go after them specifically? They’re not going to stop? Trafficking is a huge amount of money, and us going against them means putting targets on our backs.”

“Getting cold feet?” It’s a simple question, but the dangerous implication of what that means simmers beneath.

Their jaw tics, betraying their nerves, but they don’t look away. “No, just trying to decide the best way to use our resources. We go after the people who hurt others, but we focus on the trafficking and sex crimes for a reason. Going after everything else, going after the heads of these groups, puts huge targets on our backs for people with unlimited amounts of time and money.”

“So?” Hunter argues. “They can come for all I care. Let them expose themselves for what they are. They don’t deserve anything less than what’s coming for them.”

Reaper’s eyes narrow. “That may be, but we haven’t done all of this to get careless and reckless.” They look at me again. “Maybe we should lay low for a while, let things cool off, and then we can start working on a strategic plan.” They look at Mishka. “Don’t you agree?”

“I think that the only time to deliver a blow is while the iron is still hot. You let people cool off, think it was a fluke, and gather their resources; we’re more apt to be caught. Now, they’re scrambling. They’re trying to figure out where they’re going to find new assassins to add to their lines that were promised. Shore up alliances on their own that the Butcher was working on. And try to figure out who did it all and if they’re next. You hold them to the fire now, and they’ll be more compliant.”

“Or more apt to take us all down by any means necessary,” Reaper argues, frustration leaking out from their normally calm, reasonable voice.

“Let them try. We’ve ensured that won’t happen.”

“That’s what you keep saying, but we have no assurances of that,” Reaper snaps, glaring at me. “You keep saying that, but we both know that if anything happens, you’re hanging Hunter’s and my asses out to dry.”

“If you fuck up that badly, they trace everything back to you and then us, then you deserve to die,” I state. “Do you know why I chose you? Because you have been operating for years without one single person being wise to who and what you are. No connections. You bow to that pressure now, start making mistakes, that’s on you. As for assurances, considering you’re not dead yet, I’d think that’d be enough. And if not, then the money and resources I’ve connected you with to keep your work at home going.” I look at Hunter. “Both of yours.”

Hunter holds up their hands. “Don’t look at me. It’s business as usual, and I’ve got no worries. I think you’ve got it right; we strike now while they’re scrambling. What better way to make them pay attention to us as the group that took down the Butcher? People have been trying to do it for years, and he’s been evasive. Hell, I’m sure some of these fuckers will send us a thank-you basket.”

Reaper’s entire composure is on the verge of cracking. “Something you want to share, Reaper?” I ask, knowing where the discussion is heading. What they’ve been trying to keep under wraps.