“Potentially.” Steffan straightens, clearly emboldened by Kostic’s arrival. “Which is why this needs to be handled permanently.” His eyes find mine, cold with triumph. “No loose ends.”
“No loose ends,” Kostic repeats thoughtfully. “We agree on that principle.”
Mason’s hand finds mine, squeezing once—a signal to be ready to move. Ryan and Martinez have repositioned slightly, prepared for whatever comes next.
Steffan steps forward, gesturing with the gun. “I’ll handle my wife. Your men can deal with the others.”
“That won’t be necessary, Judge Reynolds.” Kostic’s voice remains perfectly calm.
“What?” Steffan frowns, confusion flickering across his features.
“I said that won’t be necessary.” Kostic moves to stand between us, facing Steffan. “The situation has changed.”
Steffan’s smile falters. “What are you talking about? Get me out of here. We’ll eliminate them together.”
“I’m afraid our arrangement has become a liability.” Kostic straightens the cuff of his immaculate shirt. “Your obsession with retrieving your wife has become—problematic for my organization.”
The blood drains from Steffan’s face as understanding dawns. “Drazen, wait?—”
“I dislike complications, Judge Reynolds,” Kostic says, as if he’s discussing the weather. “Your personal vendetta has created unnecessary exposure.”
Steffan raises his gun, panic replacing confidence. “You need me. My position, my contacts?—”
“Are replaceable.” Kostic’s hand moves in one fluid motion.
The deafening crack of a shot fills the room.
Steffan staggers backward, stunned disbelief etched on his face as he looks down at the hole in his chest. His expression cycles through shock, betrayal, and finally, terrible understanding. His eyes find mine one last time before he crumples to the floor.
“Drazen,” I whisper, frozen in place as the arms dealer lowers his weapon, smoke still wisping from the barrel.
In death, Steffan looks smaller somehow. Less threatening. Just a man on a hardwood floor, blood pooling beneath him, all his power gone in an instant.
Kostic studies me dispassionately, then nods once to Mason. “Mr. Blackwood. Your reputation precedes you.”
Mason shifts slightly, keeping his body between me and this new threat. “I’d say this is a surprise, but that would be a lie.”
“Indeed.” The arms dealer steps further into the room, his men flanking him with weapons at the ready. “Our mutual problem has been resolved.”
My husband’s body lies on the hardwood floor between us. I should feel something—horror, grief, satisfaction. Instead, I feel only a strange numbness.
“Why?” I ask. “He was your business partner.”
Kostic’s lips curve in the barest approximation of a smile. “Judge Reynolds became a liability. His obsession with retrieving you and the evidence you carry compromises our operations.”
“So you eliminated the threat,” Mason says flatly.
“Business,” Kostic shrugs elegantly. “Nothing personal.”
Outside, the gunfire diminishes, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by an occasional, distant shot.
“Your men—” I say.
“Unfortunate misunderstanding. Professional operators responding to perceived threats.” Kostic gestures, and his men lower their weapons. “I’ll order my forces to disengage immediately.”
Mason’s radio crackles. “Ghost, this is Charlie One.Hostiles are pulling back. Repeat, hostiles are withdrawing. We have two wounded, none critical.”
Relief floods through me. Ethan and his team are alive.
