Sea Haven 02 - Spirit Bound

dealing, but he was guilty of so much more than that. He worked for Jean-Claude and was responsible for giving the crime lord the location of one of their top engineers, Theodotus Solovyov, who had designed their current defense system. The attack on Solovyov had left Stefan’s brother, Gavriil, with a permanent injury, placing his life in danger.
    Gavriil, undoubtedly one of the government’s top agents, had been appointed bodyguard to Solovyov. He had managed, in spite of superior forces and being outgunned, in spite of being stabbed seven times, to keep Solovyov from being kidnapped and to drive off the kidnappers, but the microchip Solovyov had sewn into his coat had been taken. Only Solovyov and his wife had known the microchip had been placed there. Solovyov had been sold out by his own wife, and Gavriil’s mission had been considered a failure.
    A man like Gavriil Prakenskii was not forgiven failures, nor was he retired gracefully. He was simply retired. Gavriil managed to escape from the hospital and had disappeared. He would never be safe again, not bearing the Prakenskii name. The only Prakenskii truly safe was their youngest brother Ilya, who had been groomed to be an Interpol agent. He had worked for the secret assassination squad for a short time, and his services had been required on and off, but he hadn’t been given the life of living in the shadows the way his older brothers had.
    Stefan had helped Gavriil escape, carrying him through the darkened streets to a waiting car where he smuggled him out of Russia. It had been a very narrow escape, and without a doctor, Gavriil would have died, but he was gone now, using another identity, and Stefan doubted if he’d be lucky enough to ever see his brother again. Once he’d learned from Gavriil that only Theodotus Solovyov and his wife, Elena, had known about the microchip sewn into the coat, they both had known Elena had to have been the one to sell out their country.
    As soon as Gavriil was out of danger, Stefan followed the money trail, found not only Elena’s guilt, but the tie back to Jean-Claude La Roux. Elena died after providing the name of her lover. Her lover had given up the rest of the hit squad before he had died. One by one Stefan had hunted every participant who had destroyed his brother’s career and put his life in jeopardy, killing them all except for the one in the French prison. That last detail had been attended to earlier in the evening.
    Stefan lay down on his cot, ignoring Jean-Claude’s puzzled look. The man wanted more information and was probably regretting that he’d set the tone for their rocky relationship. There was immense satisfaction in knowing Jean-Claude was going to regret a lot of things—ending Gavriil’s career not the least of those regrets.
     
     
    FOUR days later, Stefan took his time in the hot shower, grateful for a decent room, clean bathroom and comfortable bed. He wrapped a towel around his hips and stepped out onto the cool tiles. Setting his gun down on the sink, he dried his hair, staring at the fogged image in the mirror. John Bastille was no more, and Stefan Prakenskii was back. He wasn’t any better looking than Bastille had been, even cleaned up. His body was in shape, every muscle loose and ready, his waist tapered, hips narrow and his core strength absolutely solid. He was like a machine, trained for any possibility. He knew a thousand ways to kill someone. He could seduce any woman out of her clothes, her sensibilities and her secrets—and had done so more times than he could count. He could hit a target a mile away in a high wind without a problem. He could deliver a needle as he brushed past his target without them feeling anything more than an annoying insect bite. He had no idea how to be anything else.
    Picking up his gun, he went into the small room, his home for the night. He had the door primed—he wasn’t a trusting man and never would be. The windows looked out over the river, his last resort should he be attacked and there was no other way out. He had set an escape route over the roof and one through the hotel as well. He had four exit strategies and his room was an arsenal. Still, he never felt safe.
    There was a restless feeling in him that hadn’t been there before. Maybe it was time to get out. He’d lost too much humanity. His senses were going numb, or maybe they had been gone all along and he hadn’t noticed—or cared.
    In spite of his determination not to look,