The safehouse in Bucharest felt like a tomb. Ral sat alone in the predawn darkness, watching surveillance feeds of the four remaining targets scattered across three continents. Each face represented the final obstacle between his family and survival. Each elimination would add another name to the list of people he'd killed or ordered killed.
Thirty-three casualties in one night had transformed him from strategist into mass murderer.
Four more wouldn't change that calculation.
"Coffee," Dmitri offered, entering with two cups. "You have been staring at those screens for six hours without moving."
"Memorizing their patterns," Ral replied, though truthfully he'd been paralyzed by Maya's question: *When does it end?*
"Their patterns are irrelevant," Dmitri stated. "After last night's coord
