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the man wanted, and had vowed to give it to him.
    “When?” Rage snapped the word over the phone.
    He sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know for a fact that it’s her, Johnno, and…”
    “You swore to me, Ian. You swore and if you take this from me --”
    “Do you honest to God think I’d do that?” Anger sharpened his own words. He knew Elianya’s name sent his friend into a black rage, the fact John had used his real name, Ian, was evidence of just how far the woman still pushed Mr. Brasher.
    He could hear John grinding his teeth. “She’s mine.”

    24
    “You don’t need to remind me.”
    Something on the other end crashed.
    He patiently waited. “Look, Johnno, it’s only a feeling I have. When I know for certain, I’ll let you know.”
    “She’s mine.”
    Again, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I will never dispute that fact.”
    “But some things are out of your control, aren’t they?” John asked, tired.
    He stood and walked to the window. “If, and that’s a damn big if, Johnno. Then she’s yours. Somehow she’ll escape or….” God he was so fucking tired. “I don’t know, we’ll come up with something.”
    “I should have just killed the bitch years ago,” John snarled.
    “Yes, but then you’d be behind bars. Sanctioned marks are one thing. Vendettas are equivalent to murder, my friend.”
    “Bullocks, that. And you bloody well know it. As if you’ve kept the lines separate.”
    True. He twisted his wrist, pushed the sleeve of his shirt up to check the time.
    “I’m late, Johnno, and since you’ve informed me that I’m marked, I’d rather get my meeting with Hellinski over with, if it’s all the same to you.”
    Again the silence stretched. “I’m in Prague at the safe house. When we heard you were marked, I was sent down here. I think they’re going to take you out soon.”
    “Cheery fucking thought, eh?”
    The line went dead.

     
    * * * *
     
    10:30 p.m.
    Dimitri realized how rattled John had been to use his real name. No one called him Ian anymore. No one but Johnno, Pete and his brothers--when he actually saw them.
    Which, was rare, though more so in the last couple of years than in the dozen since he left the family. Last he knew everyone was faring well. But then he hadn’t checked in the last couple of months. Things had been too hectic and dangerous here and he wanted no one, no one connecting Dimitri Petrolov, the Reaper, to anyone remotely connected to Ian Kinncaid.
    He’d taken chances when the needs called for and there were more of those than he’d cared to feel comfortable with. He’d had to use Johnno twice. Once to help him out in Colorado and again last year when a bastard Congressman had been after Brayden’s wife, Christian. Only his brothers had ever realized who he was and that he was helping and even then, he’d been in disguise.
    His sleek BMW cut through the late night traffic as he made his way to Nero’s The noises from outside muffled through his car. He rarely listened to music, music lulled and he could never afford to be lulled.
    Constant watch. Constant guard. If he was a civilian, he’d be neurotic. But as it were, this was all part of the job. Focused attention, a gun in his shoulder holster, an extra 9mm under his seat and a couple of cans of tear gas in the console.
    He was thirty-six years old, trusted very few men and knew he’d probably die as alone as he’d been forced to live for the last few years.
    He vaguely wondered if the Raven was successful and blew his head off, if 25
    anyone would notify his family. On that realistic, but macabre thought, he picked his phone back up and redialed Johnno who answered on the first ring.
    “What?”

    “If Raven’s successful, I need you to do something for me.”
    “She won’t be.”
    “She’s good or she wouldn’t have been hired and you know it.”
    “What is going on with you?”
    Dimitri sighed. How to explain that he’d lived so long playing this game, had