Shit. Fucking shit.
“Hawk, tell me what the f**k and do it now,” Tack growled.
“Elliott Belova was whacked early this morning. Elaine Heron is in critical condition, ICU in a hospital in Kansas City. The Russians are making moves.”
That ice started biting and Tack’s legs started moving back where he came. “Jesus f**kin’ Christ. Call your girl, I’ll call my woman.”
He disconnected then found Tyra and hit go.
He was at his safe in his closet, opening it with his fingers at the same time getting voicemail in his ear.
The freeze crusted over his skin.
He stopped what he was doing and hit go on Tyra again.
He had the safe open when he got voicemail again.
“Jesus f**kin’ Christ,” he bit off, grabbed a gun and shoved it in his belt before grabbing another one. He closed the safe and, one handed, he called Dog.
“Yo,” Dog answered.
“Russians got to Belova and Lanie. Belova’s dead. Lanie’s critical. You hear any ‘a that shit?”
“Fuck no, Jesus, brother –”
“Tyra left half an hour ago. She’s not pickin’ up her phone.”
“I’m on my bike.”
“Everyone is. Make the rounds, brother.”
“Done. Later.”
Disconnect.
Fuck. How in the f**k did shit this big happen under radar?
Tack prowled down the hall seeing both his kids standing at the end of it, faces pale, eyes on him, feeling the vibe. He stopped outside the kitchen again, held their eyes, put the extra gun on the bar and made his call to Hawk.
“Talk to me,” Hawk answered.
“No Tyra.”
Tack watched his daughter’s lips tremble.
That was when the burn hit his chest and the ice started cracking.
“She’s not with Elvira,” Hawk informed him.
“Fuck!” Tack snarled so viciously both his kids jumped.
“She’s mobilizing Nightingale.”
“I’m down the mountain.”
“Meet you at the Compound.”
“Right.”