The rain was washing the blood off my knuckles.
I didn't mind. Blood washed away. Sin didn't. But that was a problem for another night.
I leaned against the brick wall of the alley, watching the back entrance of The Daily Grind, a twenty four hour café that police officers used during night shifts. My target was inside. Police Commissioner Aditya Mahardika. The man who murdered my mother fifteen years ago.
My father's last words still lived in my skull. "Blood oath, Alexei. You don't rest until a Volkov avenges every drop of blood spilled."
I was twenty seven now. I had waited long enough. Tonight, the debt would be paid.
"Target is in position," Yakov's voice crackled through my earpiece. My right hand, a former Russian spy with a face like cracked leather, was stationed across the street on the second floor of a bookshop. "He is sitting by the window. Alone. Two guards outside the front entrance. One inside near the counter."
"Copy," I said. My voice was flat. Emotion was a luxury I could not afford.
I reached into my jacket and felt the cold steel of my Glock. Silencer attached. Extra magazine in my pocket. The plan was simple. Walk in, put two bullets in Mahardika's chest, walk out. The chaos of the night shift would buy me thirty seconds. Thirty seconds was all I needed.
I pushed off the wall and stepped into the rain.
The water soaked through my black jacket, but I did not feel the cold. Revenge kept me warm. I crossed the street, my eyes fixed on the café's glass door. Through the rain streaked window, I could see Mahardika. Grey hair. Broad shoulders. Reading a newspaper like he was any other tired old man.
He was not any other tired old man. He was a killer. And killers paid.
I was ten feet from the door when I saw her.
A woman was running toward the café from the opposite direction. Brown hair plastered to her face. A takeout bag clutched to her chest. She was laughing at something on her phone, completely unaware of the world around her.
She was also completely unaware of the man following her.
I saw him immediately. Dark hoodie pulled low. Hand buried in his pocket. Eyes locked on her purse. He was an amateur, the kind who targeted women alone at night because he was too stupid to find real work.
I could have ignored him. I had a mission. Fifteen years of hate condensed into a single night. One woman's purse was not my problem.
But something made me stop.
Maybe it was the way she smiled. Bright and unguarded, like the world had never hurt her. Maybe it was the fact that she was running toward the same café where my target sat. Or maybe it was the gun the man pulled from his pocket.
A small revolver. Cheap. But deadly enough.
"Give me the bag," the mugger hissed, grabbing her arm.
She froze. The phone slipped from her hand and cracked on the wet sidewalk. "What?"
"I said give me the bag, now!"
The woman did not scream. She did not cry. She did not beg.
She looked the mugger straight in the eye, and I saw something shift in her face. Fear disappeared. Something harder took its place.
"I'm a police officer," she said, her voice steady. "Put the gun down before I put you down."
My lips twitched. Interesting.
The mugger laughed, but it was nervous. "You're not wearing a badge, sweetheart."
"I don't need a badge to break your nose."
That was when I moved.
I crossed the distance in three seconds. The mugger did not hear my footsteps over the rain. He did not see me until my hand closed around his wrist.
I twisted. Hard.
The revolver clattered to the ground. He opened his mouth to scream, but I was already shoving my Glock into his lower back.
"Drop to your knees," I said quietly.
He dropped.
I pinned him face down on the wet asphalt, my knee pressing into his spine. He was crying now. Pathetic.
"Call for backup," I told the woman.
She was staring at me. Not at the mugger. At me. Her brown eyes were wide, but not with fear. With curiosity. And something else. Recognition? No. That was impossible. We had never met.
"Who are you?" she asked.
I should have lied. I should have walked away. Instead, I said, "Someone who hates bullies."
She stared at me for one more second, then pulled out her badge and called it in. Within three minutes, uniformed officers arrived. They took the mugger away. They asked me questions. I gave them nothing.
The woman, Officer Kira according to her nameplate, stayed behind after her colleagues left.
"You are not a cop," she said.
"No."
"Then why did you help me?"
I looked at the café window. Commissioner Mahardika was still sitting there, sipping his coffee, completely unaware that his daughter was standing three feet away from a Volkov.
His daughter.
The realization hit me like a bullet to the chest.
This woman, this brave, stupid, beautiful woman, was my target's child. The daughter of the man who killed my mother. The universe had a sick sense of humor.
"Because," I said slowly, "your father owes me a debt. And I always collect."
Her face went pale. "You know my father?"
"I know he killed someone I loved."
The rain fell harder between us. She did not step back. Most people would have run. Not her. She stood her ground, her jaw tight, her eyes searching my face for something I was not willing to give.
"What is your name?" she asked.
I should have walked away. I should have disappeared into the night and come back tomorrow to finish what I started. But something in her voice held me in place.
"Alexei," I said. It was stupid. Dangerous. Reckless. I said it anyway.
"Alexei what?"
"Just Alexei."
She took a step closer. Close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something floral. Innocent. It did not belong in my world.
"You saved my life," she said. "That means I owe you."
"You do not owe me anything."
"Too bad." She pulled a card from her pocket and pressed it into my hand. Her fingers were warm. Mine were cold. "That's my number. If you ever need help, call me."
I looked down at the card. Officer Kira Mahardika. Metropolitan Police.
I looked back up. She was already walking toward the café, toward her father, toward the man I had come to kill.
"Kira," I called out.
She turned.
"Stay away from me," I said. "I am not a good man."
She smiled. It was the most dangerous thing she could have done.
"Neither am I," she said. Then she disappeared inside.
I stood in the rain for a long time, staring at the card in my hand. Yakov's voice crackled through my earpiece.
"Alexei. The target is leaving. Do you want me to follow him?"
I did not answer.
"Alexei?"
"Call it off," I said.
"What?"
"Call it off. Tonight is not the night."
There was a long pause. Then Yakov said, "This is about the girl, isn't it?"
I crushed the card in my fist. Then I opened my hand and smoothed it flat again. I could not throw it away. I did not understand why.
"It is not about the girl," I lied.
But we both knew the truth.
The mission was compromised. My fifteen years of planning meant nothing now. Because I had looked into the eyes of my enemy's daughter, and for the first time in my life, I did not want to pull the trigger.
I wanted to know her name. I wanted to hear her laugh. I wanted to see if she really meant what she said about not being a good person.
And that was more dangerous than any bullet.