Chapter 155
Evelyn's POV
I saw the gun in my peripheral vision and threw myself sideways just as he brought it up. The suppressed shot was louder this time, close enough that the muzzle flash left spots in my vision. The bullet passed so close to my head I felt the heat of it, heard the sharp crack as it broke the sound barrier inches from my ear.
I rolled, came up in a combat crouch, my hands already searching for anything I could use as a weapon.
He was faster. The gun tracked me with mechanical precision, centering on my chest from three feet away. An impossible shot to miss.
"Don't move," he said in Russian. His accent placed him from St. Petersburg, his voice carrying that flat, emotionless quality of someone who'd divorced feeling from action a long time ago. "This doesn't have to be difficult."
My mind was racing through scenarios, calculating angles and probabilities. The knife was six feet away, might as well have been six miles. The gun was trained dead center on my chest. If I tried to rush him, I'd have a bullet through my heart before I closed half the distance.
"It's already difficult," I replied in the same language, keeping my breathing steady despite my hammering heart. I needed to buy time, needed to think.
"Kholod wants you back," he continued. His finger rested on the trigger with professional discipline—not tense enough to fire accidentally, but ready to squeeze at the first wrong move. "The Tsar has decided your contract isn't finished. You're to return to Vorkuta for reevaluation."
The word hit me like a physical blow. Reevaluation. Ice flooded my veins, colder than anything Siberia had ever produced. I knew what that meant.
"I'm done with Kholod," I said, proud that my voice came out steady. "I completed twenty-nine missions. The thirtieth was compromised. My contract is fulfilled."
"The Tsar disagrees." The gun didn't waver even a millimeter. "You have two choices. Come with me now, voluntarily, and face reevaluation. Or refuse, and I complete my secondary objective."
"Which is?"
"Your termination." He said it without inflection, without emotion. Just a simple statement of fact, like he was discussing the weather. "The Tsar prefers to have you back alive. But he'll settle for proof of death if necessary."
I believed him. Believed that he would put a bullet through my skull without a moment's hesitation if I forced his hand. That he'd carry my body back to Russia as proof of completion and never lose a single night's sleep over it. That's what Vorkuta did to people—stripped away the normal human reluctance to kill until it became just another task to be completed with maximum efficiency.
"And if I agree to go with you?" I asked, playing for time while my peripheral vision tracked the distance to the knife, calculated the probability of reaching it before he could fire. "What guarantee do I have that reevaluation doesn't end with a bullet anyway?"
"None." Something that might have been sympathy flickered across his features, there and gone in an instant. "But at least you'd have a chance to plead your case. More than you'll get if you make me use this."
"I need time to think."
"You have thirty seconds."
"That's not—"
The door exploded inward with a deafening crash.
Julian came through, his weapon already drawn and trained on the operative with the kind of precision that spoke to years of combat experience. Behind him, Weber and two other Titan operatives fanned out with military efficiency, creating a perfect crossfire that gave the Kholod operative exactly zero good options.
"Drop it," Julian said. His voice carried the kind of cold, controlled fury I'd only heard once before—in the hospital observation room when he'd thought I was going to walk away from him. "Drop the weapon now, or I will put three rounds through your skull before you can pull that trigger."
The operative's eyes flickered between Julian and me, his tactical mind clearly calculating odds and angles. He was good enough to recognize when he'd been comprehensively outmaneuvered, smart enough to know that he was now the one in an impossible situation.
Slowly, with careful deliberation, he lowered the gun to the floor.
"Kick it away," Julian ordered. His own weapon never wavered. "Then hands behind your head, fingers laced. Weber, secure him."
Weber moved in with professional efficiency, zip-tying the operative's hands with practiced speed while conducting a thorough weapons search. Two backup pistols, three knives of varying sizes, a garrote wire, and what looked like a syringe filled with some kind of sedative. The full kit of a Kholod termination specialist.
Only when Weber gave the all-clear did Julian finally turn to look at me. The cold tactical operator dissolved in an instant, replaced by something that looked like barely controlled panic. "Are you hurt?"
"Bruised ribs," I said, testing them gingerly and wincing at the sharp stab of pain. "Nothing serious. How did you know to come back?"
"Silent alarm on the balcony door." He crossed to me in three quick strides, his free hand coming up to check me for injuries with the kind of thorough, methodical assessment that spoke to medical training. "It pings directly to my phone. I was already on my way back when it triggered."
"You left your meeting."
"Fuck the meeting." The words came out harsh, almost angry. "You think there's any meeting in the world more important than making sure you're alive?"
I wanted to argue, wanted to point out that Titan was his life's work and he couldn't just abandon it every time I was in danger. But looking at his face—at the genuine fear still evident in his gray eyes, at the way his hands shook slightly as they moved over my ribs checking for serious damage—I realized that arguing would be completely pointless. This was simply who Julian was. The man who would burn down his own empire if it meant keeping me safe.
"I'm okay," I said, covering his hands with mine to still their trembling. "I'm okay, Julian. He didn't shoot me."