Misha grunted. He’d rather not be reminded of Boston. Boston had been a mess of bullets, blood, and a body count in double figures. Way too many close calls. The Italians might not have been as disciplined as the Russians under Misha’s command, but they’d done their best to compensate with numbers and firepower. Hadn’t saved them in the end, but it had forced the Russians to step up their game considerably. Though, admittedly, the incident had been a valuable lesson about what kind of damage a handful of trained killers could do when properly motivated. Misha pulled a face.

Riley had better never find out about Boston.

“Got a funny feeling,” he admitted.

Andrej glanced at Misha then back at the road, his knuckles whitening briefly. “Yeah, me too,” he said, and stared at the car in front of them with a frown. “Doesn’t make sense.”

It didn’t. Riley wasn’t even close to the kind of bastard they usually dealt with, so far from a player he might as well have been living in a different reality. Not incapable of committing violence, but keeping it on a much lower level as a rule. Riley might punch your lights out if he thought you deserved it, but he wouldn’t use those knives of his or, God forbid, that old H&K semiautomatic of his father’s. In his own way, Misha’s slow-drawling, tough-looking, grits-eating cowboy was a lot more civilized than Misha and all of his refined East Coast buddies combined. Actually, that was part of his appeal.

Misha crossed his arms, staring straight ahead as well. “Might be nothing.”

“Yeah.”

Andrej chewed on his lower lip, fingers drumming against the steering wheel distractedly.

“What was that guy’s name again?” Misha asked, carefully nonchalant. “The one who introduced you to that arms dealer? The crazy

one.”

“J.C.?” Andrej grinned reluctantly. “J.C.’s not crazy. He’s just…

cautious.”

Misha raised an eyebrow. “What’s he doing again, now?”

Andrej chuckled. “Building a survivalist stronghold somewhere near Carlsbad. So what? Everybody’s gotta have a hobby.”

“He’s stockpiling weapons and digging bunkers. He’s certified.”

Misha’s posture relaxed. Andrej was on the same page. For a second, there, Misha had wondered if maybe he was the paranoid one.

Andrej huffed, but it was mostly for show. “Overcautious,” he suggested, “and considering his history, I can’t blame him. Want me to call him?”

J.C. King was another potential disaster Misha wasn’t looking forward to, but they didn’t have a lot of options. They were unarmed.

Technically, they were AWOL, and thus couldn’t call for backup without compromising their operation. Both of them were experiencing rare pre-mission jitters. You didn’t ignore your gut instinct in Misha’s line of work.

Not when you had so many years of experience to back it up.

Again Misha’s hand found its way up to where his shoulder holster should’ve been resting and patted the empty space ruefully. Riley probably wouldn’t react well to Misha being armed, but then chances were Riley wouldn’t be all that happy to see him no matter what. Might as well feel comfortable when walking into the fire. “Call him,” he sighed.