Another sweeping gesture, all flash and flare, but Misha knew how this worked, had seen the two of them in action, and so he kept his eyes firmly on Anton. His adrenaline levels were climbing steadily and with them the slow, sharp increase in focus that came before a kill. He realized he’d already made his choice, somewhere between the diner blowing up and the sweet rush of Riley’s mouth against his, warm and alive. He’d thought he’d have more time to prepare, was all. He’d hoped he’d get to give Kolya and Andrej the chance to get out while they still could. Too late now.

“Fuck the party.” Misha smiled at his father. There was a peculiar freedom in stepping over the line. “And fuck you. I quit.”

He was aware of Mari’s tiny smirk, a brief huff from the direction of Kolya, and the soft click of Andrej moving the safety lever of his gun. J.C.’s watchful presence and the wall of weapons with him. The gob-smacked stares of his father’s men and the way Vasiliy’s face was turning purple. All of this remained at the periphery of his perception, though. The only two people who really counted were Riley and Anton, in that order.

Riley twitched when Misha made his declaration, just a little, and sucked in a quick, unsteady breath.

Anton smiled.

He was fast. So damn fast at an age where he should’ve slowed down, should’ve been easier to beat. There was a gun in Anton’s hand and it was aimed at Riley’s heart—Riley, who stood tall and unprotected (where was the fucking armor, why wasn’t McClane taking care of Riley, what the fuck?), but something made Anton stop before he pulled the trigger… and it wasn’t the gun Misha was pointing at his head.

“Drop it,” Kolya ordered, quiet and reasonable.

Vasiliy turned yet another shade of red. “You work for me. You fucking work for me, Nikolai.”

The muzzle of the Beretta aimed at his temple didn’t move.

“Worked,” Kolya corrected dispassionately. “Apparently, we quit.”

Anton took in the tableau—the gun trained on him, the gun trained on Vasiliy, Riley holding his ground silent and watchful at Misha’s right—and barked out a single, grating laugh that made Misha’s hackles rise.

“Well played, pup.”

Misha’s finger tightened on the trigger, because there was a fucking gun aimed at Riley and McClane still wasn’t anywhere in sight, not so much as a flash of silver in Riley’s eyes, and Misha couldn’t stand it, couldn’t deal with it, not so soon after he’d watched Riley nearly die. He wanted to shoot Anton, wanted to put a bullet in the bastard’s head so he wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore, about turning around one day to find Riley dead and Anton standing over him with that smile on his face.

“Drop it, Anton.”

Anton chuckled and lowered his arm.