2025-03-25 05:54:45At Monte Carlo's Abandoned Warehouse – 3:30 A.M.
Ethan sat across from Viktor Ivanov, his expression unreadable.
The room was dim, lit only by a single hanging bulb, casting long shadows across the cracked concrete floor.
Viktor leaned back in his chair, exhaling a slow drag of his cigarette. “I have a job for you, Cross.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “Who’s the target?”
Viktor smirked. “Someone you’ll enjoy killing.”
He slid a thin folder across the table.
Ethan opened it.
And froze.
A photograph stared back at him.
Marco Vasquez.
A high-ranking cartel boss. Ruthless. And one of Adrian Locke’s most trusted men.
Leo leaned in. “This is suicide.”
Ethan barely heard him.
Because suddenly, he understood.
This wasn’t just a job.
This was a power play.
Viktor didn’t just want Vasquez dead.
He wanted to cripple Locke.
And Ethan?
He was just the weapon.
Ethan shut the folder. “Where is he?”
Viktor’s grin widened. “Mexico.”
Leo cursed. “Of course he is.”
Ethan’s mind worked fast. Mexico meant cartels, corruption, and no allies.
If he took this job, there was no coming back.
He looked up at Viktor. “What’s the catch?”
Viktor exhaled smoke. “Kill Vasquez. Get me his ledgers.”
Ethan’s brow furrowed. “Why do you want them?”
Viktor’s eyes darkened.
“That’s not your concern.”
Ethan’s gut twisted. Viktor was keeping secrets.
But what choice did he have?
Locke had painted a target on his back.
If Ethan wanted to survive, he had to make the first move.
Finally, he nodded.
Viktor smiled. “Good. You leave in six hours.”
Ethan stood, pocketing the folder.
Leo ran a hand down his face. “This is insane.”
Ethan glanced at him. “So is getting killed in Monaco.”
Leo sighed. “Fine. Mexico it is.”
Ethan turned back to Viktor.
“This doesn’t make us friends.”
Viktor’s smirk didn’t fade.
“Of course not.”
But they both knew the truth.
Ethan Cross had just sold his soul.
At Monte Carlo's Private Airstrip – 9:00 A.M.
The roar of jet engines filled the air as Ethan stepped onto the tarmac.
A sleek, black private jet waited on the runway, its tinted windows giving nothing away.
Leo muttered, “First-class ticket to our graves.”
Ethan shot him a look. “We’ve survived worse.”
Leo snorted. “Barely.”
They climbed the stairs, stepping into the luxurious interior—leather seats, polished mahogany, a fully stocked bar.
Too nice for a suicide mission.
Viktor sat at the far end, swirling a glass of whiskey. “Glad you made it.”
Ethan dropped into a seat. “I assume you have a plan.”
Viktor smirked. “Of course.”
He slid a second folder across the table.
Ethan opened it.
Inside—a map of Mexico City, marked with red Xs.
Leo whistled. “That’s a lot of security.”
Viktor nodded. “Vasquez operates out of a compound outside the city. He’s paranoid, well-protected, and trusts no one.”
Ethan scanned the blueprints. “What’s the in?”
Viktor’s smirk deepened. “A woman.”
Ethan’s eyes flicked up. “Who?”
Viktor pulled out a photograph.
Ethan stared.
A woman in her late twenties—raven-black hair, sharp green eyes, and a scar along her jawline.
Sofia Delgado.
Vasquez’s right-hand lieutenant.
And his lover.
Leo groaned. “Tell me we’re not seducing our way in.”
Viktor chuckled. “Not quite. Sofia has a price. And I know what it is.”
Ethan set the folder down. “Which is?”
Viktor leaned in. “Vasquez’s head on a plate.”
Silence.
Then Leo laughed. “Oh, this just gets better.”
Ethan exhaled. “How do we reach her?”
Viktor sipped his whiskey. “She’ll be at the Diamante Club tomorrow night. Exclusive, heavily guarded.”
Leo smirked. “Guess we’re crashing a party.”
Ethan’s grip tightened around the folder.
One wrong move, and they wouldn’t leave Mexico alive.
He met Viktor’s gaze.
“Then let’s get to work.”
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