Chapter 8 - The Shadow Returns
Nikolai stood in the doorway, his overcoat soaked with rain, his right hand already gripping the grip of the pistol concealed beneath his arm.
His face was carved from stone, his professional demeanor entirely stripped of its usual calm as his eyes locked onto Roman.
“We have a situation, Roman,” Nikolai said, his voice crisp and urgent, carrying effortlessly across the quiet interior of the bookstore.
Roman spun around instantly, his body shifting from the vulnerable, pleading lover back into the lethal syndicate sovereign within a fraction of a second.
“Report,” Roman commanded, stepping smoothly in front of Sienna to shield her body with his own broad shoulders.
“The harbor operative was dead when I checked his check-in frequency two minutes ago,” Nikolai stated, scanning the foggy street outside the windows.
“A private charter from Vancouver landed at the regional airstrip an hour before our jet touched down; we were followed from Illinois.”
Sienna gasped softly behind Roman, her hand reaching out instinctively to grip the back of his wool overcoat as the reality of his world returned.
“Who is commanding the team?” Roman asked, his hand slipping effortlessly inside his jacket to draw his customized, suppressed Sig Sauer pistol.
“It’s Viktor Sokolov,” Nikolai grimaced, spitting the name out like poison as he stepped back to secure the front entrance of the shop.
“Mikhail’s youngest nephew; he must have accessed the dead patriarch's contingency files after we cleared out the Chicago safehouses last month.”
Roman cursed under his breath in fluent, violent Russian, his eyes sweeping the layout of the small bookstore for tactical advantages and exit routes.
Viktor was a rabid dog, a twenty-five-year-old psychopath who cared nothing for old-world syndicate rules or clean, professional assassinations.
If he was in Port Townsend, he wasn't looking to negotiate a territorial treaty; he was looking to burn Roman’s heart out in front of his eyes.
“Sienna,” Roman said, turning his head slightly without taking his eyes off the front window where the fog was thickening into a gray wall.
“Is there a rear exit that leads to the alleyway behind the building without passing through the main stockroom?”
Sienna did not panic, her resilience surfacing instantly as she let go of his coat and pointed toward a narrow door beside the register.
“There is a loading door that opens into the cobblestone lane behind the bakery; it locks from the inside with a heavy steel deadbolt.”
“Take Nikolai and go to the vehicle right now,” Roman ordered, his tone absolute, leaving no room for her to argue with his logic.
“I will hold the front entrance and draw their primary focus until Nikolai gets you onto the interstate heading toward the regional airport.”
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Sienna stepped around him, placing her hand squarely on his chest, her hazel eyes blazing with a fierce, stubborn fire that defied his command.
“I am not leaving you alone in my shop to get shot by Russian hitmen, Roman Volkov; we leave together right now, or neither of us goes.”
