Penance - Cain Taggert #892945

The body bobbed in the water like sea-wrecked garbage.
The Gulf of Aden didn’t care who you were. Diplomat, soldier, emissary. When you pissed off the wrong men in this world, the sea became your grave.
Vladimir Antonov stood at the edge of the dock, lighting a Davidoff cigarette. Behind him, two guards held their rifles like religious items—stiff, alert, and waiting for orders. The dead emissary floating in the harbor was his man. His message.
"Barre thinks I’m some goddamn bazaar merchant," Antonov spat in Russian. "He forgets that the only reason his warlords have guns is because I let them."
The Somali rebels had made the mistake of crossing Antonov. They received their shipment—G36s, anti-tank launchers, Stinger missiles, and crates of custom Russian ordnance—and decided not to pay. Then they killed Antonov’s man. Dumped him in the water like a note in a bottle.
This wasn’t just about money. This was disrespect. Blood had to answer.


Antonov took out a phone. A contact that didn’t live in Russia, or America, or anywhere official. He lived in the shadows. A whisper of a name across criminal networks. The devil that devils feared.
Cain Taggert.