Chapter 23
As soon as the heavy oak doors clicked shut, the illusion of diplomacy vanished. Marcus and another lethal capo stepped out from behind the heavy silk curtains, their suppressed automatic weapons raised and aimed directly at the Russian bodyguards.
"Drop your weapons," Marcus commanded, his American accent crisp and absolute.
The Russian guards hesitated for a fraction of a second. Soren moved with explosive, blinding speed. He closed the distance to Markov, grabbed the heavy lapels of the Russian’s suit, and hurled the massive man violently across the room. Markov crashed into the heavy wooden desk, shattering a crystal decanter. The Russian bodyguards instantly surrendered, dropping their handguns onto the thick Persian rug.
Soren stood over the groaning Russian boss, his tailored tuxedo completely unhindered by the exertion. "Did you truly believe you could walk into my home and use my wife's name to launder your filthy assets?" Soren whispered, his voice a vibrating hum of absolute danger.
Markov gasped for air, pushing himself up against the carved mahogany desk. His arrogant facade was entirely shattered, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated terror of a man who realized he had walked willingly into his own grave.
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"You cannot kill me, Blackwell!" Markov choked out, spitting blood onto the rug. "My syndicate in Moscow will retaliate! They will burn your ports!"
"Will they retaliate?" Soren asked, tilting his head with dangerous curiosity. The loose strands of dark hair fell over his forehead, contrasting violently with his cold, unblinking eyes. "Or will they thank me for eliminating a foolish liability who exposed their offshore routing numbers on a federal server?"
