John cursed under his breath, quickening his pace along the icy sidewalk. The wind cut through his coat, stinging his skin, but he pushed forward, eyes fixed on the man's dark silhouette moving past the brightly lit windows of a Bookberry bookstore, blending with the late-night shoppers.
The man took a sharp right onto Krivoarbatsky Lane, disappearing into a quieter street, the old Prague Restaurant sign hanging overhead. John hesitated, his gut tightening — this felt wrong. He slowed, scanning for reflections in the windows of a Pyaterochka supermarket ahead. His breath fogged the glass.
No movement. His target had vanished.
A few seconds passed. Then a flicker of movement in the reflection.
The alley narrowed, the shadows deeper, the light from the street fading as snow began to fall, softly blanketing the ground. The only sound was the distant hum of cars along Arbat, and John's footsteps echoing off the frozen walls.
Too quiet. His target wasn't running anymore.
His hand drifted toward the SIG Sauer P229 beneath his jacket.
Then a flash — movement from the darkness at his right.
John spun just as cold steel kissed his throat.
"Looking for me?" The voice rasped in his ear, hot breath clouding the air.
Instinct took over.
Spetsnaz tattoo on the wrist. Three outgoing calls in the last hour.
This wasn't a random hit.