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just come up. Creed would be damned if he got caught between a rock and a hard place because of Dominika Starkova.
    “Come on.” He grabbed her by the arm and started forward. He had his Glock 10mm in a holster at the small of his back and Kid Chaos's pistol-gripped shotgun secured in a long pocket inside his coat. He wasn't planning on using either of them to get by Edmund Braun, any more than he was planning on using the garrote in his pants pocket or the razor-edged Randall fighting knife strapped to his ankle.
    Yeah, he was a paranoid son of a bitch, psychologically unsound. All the head-shrinkers had said so. Post-traumatic stress disorder, the last one had written in his file.
    Yeah, right,
Creed had thought, not doubting the doc's diagnosis. He'd found watching the Colombians work over J.T.—fucking massacring him—yeah, well, he'd found that pretty fucking traumatically stressful.
    The Colombians had paid. They'd paid with their lives. The last one had died under Creed's knife in a lake of his own blood in the mountains of Peru, but killing him hadn't been enough.
    Nothing was ever going to be enough.
    But all Creed was going to do to old Edmund was put him down hard, and get him out of the way fast.
    Hard and fast, that's the way he and J.T. had always worked.
    A cold sweat broke out on his brow.
Geezus
. They'd been invincible for ten years. What in the hell had gone wrong?
    Real life. That's what had gone wrong, and he wasn't ready for it again. All he wanted was to be back at SDF's Steele Street headquarters with Skeeter, with his head under the hood of her Mustang, a sweet little pony car she'd named Babycakes—as if that was any kind of a name for a car, especially a badass GT 350.
    But ready or not, real life was waiting for him less than twenty yards away, and its name was Edmund Braun.
     
    CODY had made a mistake, a big one, possibly a fatal one. The surfer dude hadn't been her wisest choice. He wasn't safe. He was nuts. Six feet of crazy wild with a look in his eyes that sent a chill down her spine.
    And it had all happened so fast—the change from easygoing guy to whacko boy who was getting ready to take on Edmund Braun of the notorious Braun twins. Their reputation was the stuff of nightmares all over Eastern Europe—with good reason. She knew the stories and had made a second career of staying out of their way, out of their sight, out of any place they might be. Most of the time she'd been pretty successful, but running with Sergei Patrushev's
reketiry
meant running in a pretty tight circle, and their paths had crossed more than once.
    “Th-this guy, Edmund—” she began, breathless from their hell-bent march toward disaster. “I don't know what you're thinking you're going to do, but Edmund is a . . . a killer.” She couldn't say it any plainer.
    The man with the death grip on her coat, the one dragging her along faster than she could keep up with, slanted her a brief, piercing glance, and with sudden clarity, she understood exactly how much trouble she was in.
    The angel-faced surfer dude was a killer, too.
    Oh, God
—just when she'd thought she was safe, she was going to die, and in the library of all places. The irony of it would have been laughable, if she'd had a laugh in her.
    She didn't, not one, and the last thing she needed in her life was more irony. She was drowning in the stuff, had been drowning in it ever since she'd defied her mother's wishes and gone looking for the father she'd never known.
    Well, she'd found him all right. Dimitri Starkova, before his recent demise, had been a professor in Prague—charming, urbane, and highly educated. In short, some of what she'd hoped her father would be. Unfortunately, he'd also turned out to be a former general in the Soviet army with a mountain of debt, close ties to the Russian Mafia, and damn little conscience. Over the planned weeks of her visit, her journey to see him had slowly turned from the trip of a lifetime into the vacation