Now stained with the blood of the cat and the black mud of the forest.
Kieran leaned against the back of a tree.
He heard them before he saw them.
The crunch of boots. The low, disciplined murmur of radios. Valentin's men.
Kieran's hand tightened around the handgun, but he checked the magazine. Two rounds. Only two. He couldn't go in loud. He had to be like the animal that had just tried to kill him. He had to be the apex.
He looked down at the forest floor. Near the roots of the tree sat a cluster of Aconitum—Wolfsbane. Its hooded purple flowers looked regal, but Kieran knew their secret. They were a death sentence.
He didn't have a lab. He didn't have time. He used a rock to crush the stems and roots against a flat stone, producing a thick, milky sap. He took a long, fallen branch—sturdy and sharp—and coated the tip in the poison.
He wasn't a CEO anymore. He wasn't a D'Angelo. He was a man with a sharpened stick and a heart full of fire.
