A shadowy, globe-spanning network of operatives run by the mysterious power broker known as Dante. They hold allegiance to no one, existing as rogues on the fringes of society. No matter the job, Infernum has an operative to execute it—provided you have the means to pay for it!
Angela Lockhart doesn't leave witnesses. She doesn't leave evidence. And she sure as hell doesn't leave the job unfinished. A year ago, she found her husband dead and never learned who pulled the trigger. Now, Dante has offered her a trade: hunt for Infernum, and he'll hand her the name of her husband's killer. So when Dante sends her to eliminate a trafficker hiding behind the walls of a seedy peep show, she walks in expecting a clean hit and walks out having gunned down four men, torched a crime scene, and ridden off into the night with nothing to show for it but a stolen ring and a body count.
For Dante, it's just another Tuesday. Send Angela in, get the job done, send a message. Snitches never prosper—and Dante makes damn sure everyone remembers that.
But someone else is watching. Agent Christian Pierce has spent his career chasing Infernum through dead ends, cold trails, and crime scenes scrubbed clean before he ever gets there. Infernum doesn't make mistakes—not when it comes to assassinations, and not when it comes to covering its tracks. Pierce knows better than to waste resources chasing ghosts. But this time, the ghosts might be chasing back.
As Angela climbs deeper into Infernum's inner circle and closer to the truth behind her husband's death, the answers she finds may cost her more than the case ever could. Every hit brings her closer to Dante's secrets—and closer to a man who might be the one target she can't put a bullet in.
In a world where power is bought in blood and loyalty is worn in gold rings, trust is the most dangerous weapon of all. Angela's about to find out that some jobs don't end when the smoke clears—they're just getting started.
Love & Bullets kicks off the INFERNUM series with high-octane action, hardboiled crime, and a body count that doesn't quit. Fans of hitwoman thrillers, pulp noir, and stories where nobody plays by the rules will find their next obsession here.
Jack Travis had a round frame and a face grizzled with dark whiskers, his horrible breath a result of his diet, consisting mostly of foods overloaded with onion and garlic. He wore his gray suit jacket unbuttoned, but his belt buckle was obscured by the hang-over of his gut, covered by an off-white shirt. Open collar with no tie in sight. Travis didn't have much use for dressing himself in fine clothes. To him, a cheap suit was just as good as an expensive one, better because of the price tag. This preference wasn't due to a lack of funds on his part—Jack Travis had quite a bit of money. But he preferred to spend it on things he felt were more worth his time.
He walked in on short legs, barely putting his height above five-foot-five. The two men who flanked him dressed far nicer than he did and they towered over him. He gestured for them to stop and they waited for him by the entrance while Travis walked down the narrow hallway and entered one of the many doors that lined the corridor.
The door led to a small booth with a reclining chair in the center, a box of tissues on the small ledge, and a glass window covered from the other side. Travis took out some bills from his wallet and slid them into the slot. The gold ring on his finger, with the Chinese character for fire engraved in the red gemstone, caught his eye and he chuckled. He sank into the chair, shifting to accommodate his frame. He raised his gut enough to unbuckle his belt and open his pants, reaching inside his shorts.
The covering over the window opened and Travis expected to see Charlotte, his usual girl. This was just a warm-up for his usual visits with Charlotte—he liked the teasing and after the show was over, she would go home with him.
But Charlotte with her dark hair and green eyes wasn't there. Instead a different woman sat in her place, very attractive, possibly late twenties or early thirties. Her long blond hair hung down, framing her thin face and she stared at Travis with an icy gaze. She wore a white shirt under a black leather jacket and a pair of blue denim jeans. Her hands were clasped behind her back.
“Tell me how you want it,” she said with a slight grin.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“A friend of Dante.” Her left hand swung around, a Desert Eagle clasped in her gloved grip. Two quick squeezes of the trigger were followed by two holes in the glass, now stained red. Jack Travis lay motionless in the recliner, blood seeping from the holes in his body—one in his forehead, the other in his neck.
The mysterious woman stood from the stool, walking past the unconscious Charlotte. The chloroform would keep her out for a while and solved the problem of any witnesses. Angela Lockhart would have preferred to poison Travis, make it look like an accident. But Dante wanted to send a message—snitches never prosper.
Before she had the opportunity to leave the booth, the door on the other end opened and Travis' two bodyguards entered, presumably drawn by the sound of the gunfire.
“Soundproof, my ass...” muttered Angela.
The guards each drew their weapons and opened fire. Angela dropped to the ground as the bullets cut through the space she once occupied. She wished she had a second gun. Her hand reached beneath her jacket, finding one of the spare clips she kept in the special pockets sewn into the lining. She gripped the spare clip in her right hand, hefting the Eagle in her left and getting ready, keeping careful count of the shots she head. They stopped at eleven. Seven shots unaccounted for. So either they didn't have full clips or they got smart and were now approaching the window. Angela wished it were the former but knew the latter was always far more likely. If she didn't take a chance now, it would be harder to get out.
She sprung from her crouch. The shots shattered the glass, leaving an open gap between the booths. Angela leapt headfirst through it, over the chair that housed Travis's body and between the guards who stood on either side. She landed in a roll and came upright in the corridor, swinging the gun from side to side, squeezing off four more shots through the doorway. One missed completely, one struck the guard on her left in his knee, the other two hit the right guard in his torso, felling him. She stood, ready to finish off the one left behind, but a new sound jerked her head to the right.
“You bitch!”
At the end of the corridor stood the owner, a shotgun in his hands, rage in his eyes. She rolled her own eyes and jumped into the booth just as the owner fired a load of buckshot, landing at the wall almost diagonal from the surviving guard.
“Just when you think a job is finished, you have to contend with some fat bastard holding a shotgun.”
The remaining guard sat on the ground, clasping his knee to stop the bleeding, moaning in pain. Once he saw Angela, he risked moving one of his blood-stained hands, trying to grab his gun. Angela acted on instinct, firing one shot into his hand and then quieting his screams of pain by putting a bullet in his head.
She repeated her employer's instructions in a whisper, “'we have to send a message.'” Two rounds left in the Eagle, so she ejected the clip and slapped in the fresh one, loading the first bullet into the chamber. “Fuck you, Dante.”
Edging carefully to the door, she took one of the spare guns and tossed it into the hall. The owner fired again, startled by the sudden movement.
“Amateurs,” said Angela. The distraction meant recoil time, a window of no more than a moment. But it was a window she decided to dive through. The booth across the corridor was open. She leaped across the hallway, firing two shots as she fell into the opposite booth. The owner followed up with some more shots.
Pushed up against the wall, she was just inches from the door. She could hear his footsteps and his heavy breathing. By this point, all the gunfire would attract attention. She hoped the other patrons were either too busy with their pipe cleaning or too scared by the gunfire to leave the booths and investigate. After she put down this asshole with the shotgun, she could get out of here, confident in the knowledge that no one who saw her face survived.
Her gun vanished inside her jacket. It wouldn't do her much good, not for what she planned. She waited and as soon as she saw the tip of the shotgun poke into the room, she grabbed it. Wrenching it from the surprised man's grip, she slammed the butt against his nose, hard enough to hear a crack and blood started to flow from his nostrils. She swung it like a bat, striking the side of his head and he rocked to the side. Flipping the gun around, Angela pointed it at his chest and fired. The force of impact sent him flying back, landing in the doorway of the booth where her other victims lay.
After dropping the shotgun, she went to Travis’ body. She raised his hand, examining the ring on it and carefully removed it. Knowing what Travis’ purpose in this place was, she was glad she had gloves. They'd end up in the fire later tonight. But the ring was important. Dante specified that he wanted it back.
She left calmly through the back entrance, the door used by the dancers. In the alley, a customized Harley Davidson sat waiting, helmet resting on top. Zipping up her jacket and donning the helmet, she started the bike and rode out slowly from the alley, merging into traffic and driving off.
Carl Flint runs a dive bar called Outlaw Blues, trying to leave his old life as a hitman for Infernum behind him. But when Dante gives him an offer too big to refuse, Flint takes one last job—putting a bullet in federal agent Christian Pierce. It's the job that finally severs him from everything he used to be, and sends him fleeing across the border, with the hopes of making amends for a botched job years earlier.
Six months later, Flint is "Joe Lawrence," a quiet drunk nursing tequila in a nowhere Mexican town—until he can't stay quiet anymore. Standing up to the local cartel enforcers makes him a target of Suárez, the man running the town into the ground. At the same time, Agent Julie Kim, hunting her partner's killer, is closing in on the same small town, with no idea yet that the trail leads to the man sitting at the end of the bar.
Two hunts are converging on Carl Flint, and neither the cartel nor the Agency plans on letting him walk away this time.
Outlaw Blues unfolds in shifting timelines, weaving Flint's fall from grace with the reckoning waiting for him in the present, set in the world of the Infernum series. Fans of grizzled antiheroes, cartel showdowns, and stories where the past always catches up will find their next obsession here.
He paused on the stage as he listened for the drummer to begin the introduction to the piece. As he waited, he placed his lips around the mouthpiece, moistening the reed just enough to prepare it for the performance. He waited for the timing, listening to the drummer’s rhythm and then blew inside the saxophone.
The dim lights of the bar reflected off the instrument’s silver finish as the saxophonist began his piece. His fingers danced along the keys, a tune both sorrowful and upbeat at the same time echoing throughout the small tavern. The music reflected the pain the musician felt in his soul, but at the same time communicated his enjoyment and his peace at simply playing his instrument.
Musicians sometimes joke that the saxophone is a “P.H.D.” instrument—“press here, dumbass.” It doesn’t require the same amount of mouth control as the brass or even some woodwinds, you just press a key, blow and instant music.
Carl Flint knew differently.
He knew that for any instrument, regardless of complexity, the one thing necessary to produce true music was simple.
Passion.
Passion for life, passion for memory, passion for anything. The instrument was simply a tool to communicate that passion. Whereas the writer would rely on the pen, the musician relied on his instrument. But passion was always the key ingredient.
Without passion, music didn’t exist. Carl Flint understood this. Especially because for him, music was the only passion he had left.
He finished his set and no applause came. No surprise, given that there were only four people in the bar besides him and the drummer. Two of them were regulars so engrossed in their particular brand of poison that they were practically passed out. The third was the man tending bar and the fourth sat in the rear, smoking a cigarette, his face obscured by the darkness.
Flint took off the neck strap and set the saxophone down on its stand. He climbed off the stage and went over to the bar, taking a seat before the server.
“The usual, boss?”
Flint nodded. “My cancer sticks, too.” The bartender set down a pack of cigarillos with a small box of wood matches. Flint tore open his prize and placed it between his lips, igniting the tip of the cigar with one of the matches. A moment later, the bartender set down a glass filled with golden liquid, the ice clinking against the side.
As Flint alternated between puffs on the cigarillo and sips of the double Jack on the rocks, the stranger came over towards him and occupied the empty stool without an invitation.
“Good set.”
“Thanks,” said Flint.
“Been a long time, Flint.”
Flint used his peripheral vision to get his first look at the stranger and instantly wished he hadn’t. “Jackal.”
“Glad you remember me,” said the stranger. “But I’ve told you before, it’s Jaquel.”
“I prefer my version.”
“I bet you do.”
“What do you want?”
“What, a guy can’t come down to visit an old friend?”
“We were never friends. Wouldn’t even call us acquaintances.”
“Be that as it may, I’ve got something that might interest you,” said Jackal.
“I’m retired,” said Flint.
“And how’s that working out for you?”
Flint offered no response.
“C’mon man, you’re sitting here, running some blues bar—”
“I make a good living running this place.”
Jackal glanced around the room as he smoked his cigarette and chuckled a little. “Oh yeah, I can see that. This place is really jumping.”
“It’s a weeknight, what do you expect?”
“Do you at least wanna hear what I have to offer?”
“Do I look like I’m interested?”
“Most people would say no, but I know differently.” Jackal flicked the ash from his cigarette in the tray. “I know you’re looking for a way out, a way to retire peacefully somewhere nice and quiet, preferably tropical. Instead, you’re stuck here in this dive, playing music that no one listens to.”
“Did he send you?” asked Flint.
Jackal smiled. “See? Tough guy routine aside, you are interested.”
Flint felt his blood pressure rise. “Cut the crap and just answer the damn question. I’m in no mood for your shit.”
Jackal took another drag on his cigarette and nodded. “It’s him.”
“Christ...” muttered Flint. “Dante.”
“The one and only. There’s a mark here in the city, he thought you’d be willing to come out of retirement for this one.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re one of the best marksmen he’s ever seen, that’s why.”
“Oh go to hell, Jackal, we both know he never did that ranking crap. So I ask you again—why me? He’s got any number of go-to guys, so why doesn’t he go to one of them for this?”
“Okay, so it’s obvious placating your ego isn’t going to get me anywhere.”
“Exactly, so why don’t you just tell me the real story? What makes me so goddamned special that he wants me for this job?”
“One word—convenience,” said Jackal. “It’s an urgent job, he needs it done immediately. And he figures contracting you for it would be faster—and cheaper—than flying someone else in and risk missing his window.”
“I haven’t fired a gun in five years,” said Flint. He looked at his right hand, stretching out the fingers. “Digits aren’t what they used to be.”
“You still have your equipment though, right?”
Flint hesitated. Used that hesitation to take a large gulp of his whiskey and a few puffs on the cigar. “Yeah, I still got it.”
“Of course you do, bet you still clean them every day.”
“Week.”
Jackal shrugged. “Close enough. Besides, seeing you up there with that sax, seems like your fingers still move pretty well.”
“Maybe so, but reflexes aren’t the same,” said Flint. “Cleaning is a game for young guns. I’m pushing fifty. I drink, I smoke, and I don’t exercise for shit. What makes you think I can handle a job like this?”
“Your eyesight still good?”
“As good as ever.”
“Then you could be in a wheelchair for all the big man cares. It’s a distance hit, we just need him sniped.”
“You said this was an urgent job.”
“That I did.”
“How urgent is urgent?”
“Dante figured you might have some trepidation given how your last assignment went. So he’s giving you some time to think it over,” said Jackal.
“How very generous.” muttered Flint. “How much time?”
Jackal threw a few bills on the bar to cover his tab. “I’ll be back tomorrow night expecting your final answer.”
“Don’t bother. The answer’s no.”
“The job pays fifty.”
“Thousand?”
Jackal nodded.
“Pretty decent chunk of change,” said Flint. “Still not interested.”
“C’mon Flint, the hell’s the matter with you? You could do this job with your eyes closed and it pays a lot.”
“The last job.”
Jackal nodded. “Okay, fair enough. Things got messed up, but you walked away from a lot of cash that time. Cash that could’ve helped that girl. Think what you could do with that money now.”
Flint hesitated before he responded with, “who’s the target?”
“That information is on a strictly need-to-know basis. And until you accept, you don’t need to know.”
“If I’m walkin’ into a shitstorm, I need to know which way the wind’s blowing.”
“Relax, you grizzled old bastard,” said Jackal. “You know how the big man operates. This is nothing you can’t handle and no one you’ll shed any tears for, I can promise you that much.”
“Tomorrow night, then?” asked Flint.
Jackal grabbed his cigarettes and lighter before standing. “You got it, cowboy. I’ll see you then.”
Once Jackal left, the bartender returned to collect the money. He counted it with a grunt before depositing it in the register. “Cheap bastard didn’t leave a tip.”
“Not surprised,” said Flint.
“Friend of yours?”
“Don’t got any friends and if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t count the Jackal among them.”
“Don’t mind me saying boss, but he seemed to have you a bit rattled.”
Flint locked eyes with the bartender. “I do mind you saying.”
“Sorry sir,” said the bartender, now staring intently at his own shoes. Without looking up, he added, “so what did he want to talk to you about?”
“Mickey, I pay you to pour drinks, not to ask questions.”
Mickey nodded. “Sorry for being curious. I’m a bartender, it’s in my nature.”
“And it’s in my nature to keep my business my own.”
“Right, sorry boss.”
Flint glanced over his shoulder at the two regulars who remained. “Get them up.”
“Want me to call them a cab?” asked Mickey.
“For all I care, you can leave them on the sidewalk. Just don’t want them in my place after hours.”
“Got it.”
“Good,” said Flint. He downed the rest of the whiskey and set the empty glass on the counter. “Lock up on your way out, I’m going upstairs to get some shut-eye.”
“Have a good night, boss.”
Flint set his hands on the counter and pushed up to get off the stool. As he moved towards a door at the back of the tavern, he muttered under his breath.
“The hell’s so good about it, huh?”
He ascended the staircase to the single room apartment above the bar. Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and removed his shirt. Flint caught sight of his naked chest in the mirror, running his calloused fingertips along the lines of his torso. Tracing the scars that stood there from battles long over. Each one had a story to tell and each story Flint wished he could forget. He looked into the eyes of the man who stared back at him in the mirror. His skin was creased from age and his formerly jet-black hair was thinning at the top and lightening at the temples. Even the stubble on his face had gone from black to gray and his dark brown eyes looked tired.
He sighed and opened the door to the closet. Flint reached for the shelf above the hanging clothes and pulled out a large, black case.
Inside sat an old shotgun and two long-barrel revolvers. Custom-made but with a look that resembled the old Colt Peacemaker. Flint removed one of them and opened the chamber, staring at each empty hole.
“We may be too old for this life, girl. But something tells me we’re going in for one last ride. And I’m bettin’ it’ll be the one that finally does us in.”
He steals for a living, now he's stealing for his life
Dalton Moore steals for a living, and he's damn good at it. Champagne, disguises, a smooth accent that isn't his own—Dalton can talk his way into any vault in the world with a hacker partner in his ear and an exit strategy already planned. He's got one rule, though: he's a thief, not a killer.
Then Dante shows up in his living room.
Turns out Dalton's last big score cost the wrong man a fortune—and Dante doesn't forgive debts, he collects them. Now Dalton's being blackmailed into a job for Infernum, with his own life on the line and his long-missing father dangled as bait for good behavior. Dante wants something stolen, and he's not interested in hearing Dalton's rules about who he will and won't cross.
Dalton's about to learn that in Dante's world, there's no such thing as walking away clean—only walking away alive, and even that's not guaranteed. Every lock he picks, every mark he cons, pulls him deeper into a criminal empire that doesn't let go of the people it owns.
Some debts can't be repaid. They can only be survived.
Gentleman Rogue is a slick, high-stakes caper thriller full of cons, heists, and impossible choices, set in the world of the Infernum series. Fans of charming rogues, double-crosses, and stories where the mark becomes the target will find their next obsession here.
San Francisco. Right in the heart of Silicon Valley.
Dalton Moore, a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a black tuxedo walked through the lobby of Loerke Technologies. The lobby was packed with guests, all dressed to the nines and mingling about, gorging themselves on the free food and open bar. Most were at the party to celebrate Loerke’s sky-rocketing emergence into the technology market, with ideas and plans that promised to make a lot of waves—and that worried some very powerful people.
Dalton moved through the crowd, speaking to some of the guests and joining in with idle chit-chat as he sipped champagne. His steel eyes looked through the lenses of his dark-rimmed glasses, and a voice crackled in his ear.
“Okay, looks like we’ve got visual.” The voice belonged to Baxter, a top-of-the-line hacker and Dalton’s partner and technical support.
Dalton gave no response, just continued talking with a group of young professionals. He smiled and laughed at their jokes, but really paid very little attention to what they said. Instead, his eyes were focused on another group on the other side of the room.
“Right there. See that bald guy with the beard? That’s Malcolm Loerke,” said Baxter. “Now see the woman by his side?”
Dalton did. Early forties, wearing glasses and had burgundy hair that fell over her shoulders.
“Excuse me,” said Dalton to his conversation partners. He turned away from them. “What about her?”
“That’s Gabrielle Russell, Loerke’s executive assistant,” said Baxter. “You need access to Loerke’s office and she seems like the easiest way to get it.”
“Sure about that?” Dalton emptied his glass and set it on one of the many small, standing tables set up around the room. He watched as Loerke and another guest excused themselves, leaving Gabrielle Russell alone.
“Well, you could always try seducing Loerke himself…”
“Not my type.” Dalton stepped from the table, walking over to a passing waiter who carried a tray of freshly-filled champagne glasses. Dalton smiled at the waiter.
“Pardon me.” He took two glasses and began his approach. His target didn’t even look at him, just watched the crowd. Dalton sidled up beside her. “You look like you could use a refill.”
She jumped at the sudden appearance, then relaxed and grinned. “I’m sorry, you startled me.”
“My apologies.” Dalton held out one of the glasses. “Join me?”
She glanced down at the drink, apparently considering it for a moment before she accepted the offer. “Thank you.”
“Kenneth Pyne,” said Dalton, now extending his hand.
“Gabrielle Russell.” They shook. “So, Mr. Pyne—”
“Please, call me Ken,” said Dalton.
She placed a hand on her chest. “Gaby.” Her gaze lingered on his eyes and finally she said, “That’s a wonderful accent. England?”
Dalton nodded. “London, as a matter of fact. And you?”
“Philadelphia. We’re not known for our sophisticated accents.”
“But you more than make up for it with your cream cheese and steak sandwiches.”
Gaby snickered. “I suppose we do.” She held up her glass. “Cheers.”
“Indeed.” Dalton clinked the side of his glass against hers and they both drank.
“What brings you all the way from London?” asked Gaby.
“I’m an investor, actually.”
“Oh?” Gaby raised her eyebrows. “I hope you’re impressed by what you’ve seen so far.”
Dalton sipped his drink, keeping his eyes locked on Gaby. When he lowered his glass, he had a small smile playing on his lips. “Quite.”
* * *
The second Gaby led Dalton into the darkened conference room, she shut the door immediately and pinned him against it, their lips entangled and hands running freely over each other’s bodies. She broke the kiss just long enough to say, “I’ve never done anything like this!”
“Me neither,” said Dalton before resuming the kiss.
Gaby pulled open his jacket and her hands fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, while Dalton tugged at the zipper on the back of her long, red dress. He pushed her from the door, laying her down on the conference table. Gaby left her handbag on the table and her hands went inside his shirt, rubbing the hair on his bare chest and wrapping her legs around his waist. Dalton’s hands moved over her torso and her breasts, kissing and biting at her neck. Gaby shut her eyes and soft moans escaped her lips.
A piercing ring interrupted their tryst. Gaby froze and cast him a questioning glance. Dalton sighed and reached inside his jacket, taking out a smartphone. Gaby could see the name on the backlit display read MELISSA.
“Who’s that?” she asked, unlocking her legs from his waist.
“Hold that thought.” Dalton answered the phone. “Yes?”
“It’s Bax, just listen. We’ve got to get moving on this, okay? Our window might be closing.”
“I understand,” said Dalton, trying to avoid Gaby’s inquisitive stare.
“Good, now I want you to say you’ll be home soon,” said Baxter.
“I’ll be home soon,” said Dalton.
“Nice. Now say you love me, too.”
“I…” Dalton rubbed his eyes and mumbled, “I love you, too.”
Baxter’s laughing prompted Dalton to end the call. Gaby slid onto her feet and straightened her dress, her eyes closed tightly as she did.
“Wife or girlfriend?” she asked.
“Gaby, I—”
“Don’t.” She turned and faced him, hurt evident on her face. “Just…don’t.”
Dalton sighed. Gaby zipped up her dress, picked up her handbag from the table and opened the door. “I should probably get back to Mr. Loerke. Enjoy the party, Mr. Pyne.”
Dalton said nothing, just stood in the room. The door closed, leaving him in the darkness once again. He buttoned his shirt back up and straightened his tie when he heard laughter in his ear.
“Did you enjoy that?”
“Ohhh…you have no idea,” said Baxter.
“Kindly tell me the reason behind that little stunt.”
“Hey, you’re still on the clock, Romeo, and you needed a reason to get outta there.”
“And what if I hadn’t made the pull?”
“Then you’re getting slow in your old age.” Baxter paused and then added, “You did get it, didn’t you?”
Dalton reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a keycard with Gaby’s picture on it, the same card he’d taken from her handbag while he was kissing her. “What do you think?”
“That’s my guy. So let’s get on with this, huh?”
Dalton palmed the keycard and left the conference room. Down the left end of the corridor would take him back to the party, but right would lead to the elevators. He smoothed down his hair and turned right, pressing the call button on the wall. An elevator arrived instantly and he hit the button for the top floor.
Once he reached his stop, Dalton walked through the hall, reading the nameplates on the office doors. He stopped when he came to a corner office with the name M. LOERKE on the plate. Dalton held the keycard up to the door’s sensor and the light flashed green. With his handkerchief, Dalton turned the handle and entered the room. A desk sat in the outer office as well as a couch. On the desk was a nameplate reading GABRIELLE RUSSELL. Behind Gaby’s desk were a pair of doors without a lock. Dalton entered Loerke’s office and moved behind the desk, turning on the computer. A login screen appeared.
“Are you ready?”
“Yup, plug an’ play, baby,” said Baxter.
Dalton took a small black plastic case from his jacket’s outer pocket. Inside were two small USB drives. Dalton took one and plugged it into an open port. A small blue light began flashing.
“Let me work my magic,” said Baxter.
Dalton could hear keys clacking over the earpiece. After a few seconds, the login and password fields filled in on their own and the screen changed to reveal Loerke’s desktop. A window flashed on the screen, reading HARD DRIVE UPLOAD IN PROGRESS with an empty bar and 0% under it.
“Hurry it up, Bax.”
“Don’t rush me, man. There’s a lot of stuff on here. Just think about how much money we’re making off this job.”
The progress bar slowly filled. As Dalton waited, he sat in Loerke’s chair, leaning back.
* * *
Malcolm Loerke had been speaking with a group of people when he was approached by a tall, dark-skinned man in a suit. He towered over Loerke by a good foot or so and bent down to whisper in his ear. Loerke tried to hide the change in his expression by offering a smile to the people who had been hanging on his every word.
“Could you all excuse me for a minute?” he said before turning away and following the taller man to an area where they could speak just out of earshot. Still, they kept their voices low.
“Sir, we’ve received an alert.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Loerke.
“There seems to be a breach of protocol. An unauthorized transfer off-site.”
Loerke looked up at his chief of security, raising an eyebrow. “From where?”
The chief hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat before saying, “Your office, sir.”
“Take a security team up through the stairwell. Don’t alert anyone that there’s something going on,” said Loerke.
“Yes, sir.” The chief of security turned away, raising his wrist to his mouth, speaking commands in a whisper.
* * *
Once the upload finished, the computer’s speakers emitted a quick alert sound. Dalton looked at the screen and saw UPLOAD COMPLETE. He unplugged the USB drive and put it back in the case. Then he took the second drive, but hesitated, holding the connector hovering over the port.
“Are we sure about this?” he asked.
“Part of the job, buddy.”
Dalton nodded and plugged the drive in. Another window appeared on the screen, this one reading INITIATE UPLOAD? Dalton hit the OK button and watched as another progress bar appeared.
The door opened without warning and Dalton looked up from the monitor. He saw two men in suits raise their silenced guns. Dalton immediately dropped to the floor and slid under the desk as they opened fire.
“Got a bit of a situation here, Bax!” said Dalton.
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“Seems Loerke’s security found me in something of a compromising situation.” A string of expletives exploded through Dalton’s earpiece. He waited for Baxter to quiet down and then added, “Are you quite through?”
“Get the hell outta there now, Dalton!”
The two guards stopped firing, but kept their guns ready as they slowly approached the desk. One of them moved a step or two ahead of the other, holding out his gun as he circled around the desk.
Dalton grabbed the man’s forearms and the gun went off, firing a shot into the hardwood floor. Dalton swung his leg out, dropping his enemy to the floor and twisting the gun away from him, tossing it aside.
“Hey!” The second guard came around the other side of the desk and Dalton rolled across the floor to avoid the bullets. He sprung to his feet and lunged at the chair, delivering a swift kick. The chair’s wheels took it across the floor and into the guard.
Dalton charged towards the chair, slamming the guard between it and the wall. The thief grabbed the guard’s neck and delivered a few swift punches until he fell unconscious. Dalton picked up the discarded weapon by the barrel and approached the first guard, who started to rise. With a quick motion, Dalton slammed the butt against the man’s head, knocking him down. He looked at the gun and tossed it into Loerke’s wastebasket. Dalton went to the computer and, once he saw UPLOAD COMPLETE on the screen, removed the USB drive.
He knew the likelihood of more guards being outside was high. Dalton pressed his back to the wall, holding the door in front of him. He slowly pushed it forward, staying behind it and peering around the edge. Another guard was in Gaby’s office and as soon as he caught sight of the target, he squeezed off a few shots. Dalton ducked behind the door and the bullets slammed futilely into its surface.
Dalton reached inside his suit coat for the shoulder-holster hidden beneath. He drew a gun quite a bit different from the ones wielded by security. Dalton swung around the door and pulled the trigger, firing a small dart that struck the guard’s neck. The guard seized up then dropped to his knees before falling unconscious.
Dalton took that man’s gun as well and exited into the corridor. Coming down from one corridor were several additional guards and they started shooting. Dalton ducked and ran down the opposite corridor.
“Bax, I need extraction fast!” he shouted into the comm. Dalton charged into the stairwell, but heard the sound of footsteps racing up the steps. “Dammit! Get Colin up there now!”
There was one flight of stairs leading to the roof and Dalton bounded up them. The only door had ROOF ACCESS stamped on its surface and he ran through it.
Dalton ran out onto the roof, the lights of the San Francisco skyline blinking against the darkness of the night. He reached the edge when he heard the door slam open and then the words, “Don’t move!”
He hesitated but slowly raised his arms.
“Turn around!”
Dalton followed the order and slowly turned, facing the chief of security and about a dozen other guards in suits. The chief walked towards him, keeping his gun raised. Dalton just smiled at him.
“I don’t suppose we could talk this out like gentlemen, eh?”
“Should’ve thought of that before you broke into our system,” said the chief. “What’s your purpose here?”
“What, and spoil the surprise? Where’s the fun in that?”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Pity.”
Both Dalton and the chief could hear a sound in the night. A thwp-thwp-thwp that seemed to cause the chief to pause, while Dalton’s grin widened. “Dreadfully sorry, mate, but I’m afraid I’ll have to take a raincheck on our little chat.”
The chief was stunned into silence when a small helicopter rose up above the roof, hovering there. Dalton swung out a fist and struck the chief, not enough force to knock him down, but definitely enough to distract him just long enough. Dalton turned and planted a foot on the ledge, springing up just high enough to grab hold of the helicopter’s landing skids.
The guards fired at Dalton and the departing helicopter, but they struck nothing as it flew off into the distance.
Angela Lockhart isn't dead, and she isn't done. Faking her way back into Dante's good graces, she's hunting two men at once: the arms dealer who killed her husband, and a Russian bio-weapons scientist Dante wants for his own reasons. Getting close to both means playing double agent inside the very organization she's trying to destroy—and trusting people who've given her every reason not to.
She's not the only one after the scientist. The Agency has assembled its own team to beat Infernum at its own game: Julie Kim, still carrying the guilt of Mexico; Baxter Sutton, a hacker trying to prove he's more than his old partner's crimes; Quartermain, running point on a mission with no margin for error; and Vincente, the Agency's silent, merciless top assassin. Break into a Russian prison, extract a scientist who holds the key to a weapon that could kill thousands, and get out before Dante's people ever know they were there.
Nobody told them Dante's people would already be inside.
When both operations collide behind the prison walls, old grudges, new alliances, and one very contagious bio-weapon are about to make Russia a lot more dangerous for everyone involved.
The Fixers brings together the Infernum series' assassins, agents, and thieves for its highest-stakes entry yet—a globe-spanning thriller of double-crosses, prison breaks, and a race against a weapon nobody can afford to lose. Fans of ensemble action, spy games, and stories where every alliance comes with a price will find their next obsession here.
The bass pounded in the Moscow nightclub. The entire establishment was bathed in darkness, with neon lights flashing over the young crowd as they gyrated to the DJ’s sounds. The club’s second floor wrapped around the edges, allowing those above to watch the people on the dance floor below. A few cages hung suspended from the ceiling with scantily clad dancers inside. One woman pushed through the crowd, wearing jeans, a white tank top, and a leather jacket.
She went to the bar and leaned over the counter, brushing the blond hair behind her ear. The bartender leaned forward, turning his head so he could hear her over the music. She ordered a drink and whispered something to him. Discretely, she slid several rubles across the counter and he claimed them with the same discretion as he placed her drink in front of her.
The woman turned her back to the bartender and sipped the gin and tonic as her eyes scanned across the club. She looked up, focusing on the balcony and the VIP seating area. Her blue eyes noted the man who sat in the balcony, looking over the edge at the dancers below. He was too old to be in a place like this, easily in his fifties with a thick, dark mustache. But the women who were more than half his age, wearing next to nothing and draping themselves over his body didn’t seem to mind.
She took the drink and walked up the steps. There were three men in suits who stood between her and the roped-off VIP booth and they blocked her path as she approached, shaking their heads. They were big and from the tattoos she could see on their wrists, part of the Russian mob. Just like her target.
“What do you want?” one of the guards asked in Russian.
“I’m here to speak to Mr. Brezhnev,” she said. Though her Russian was good, there was no mistaking that the accent was American.
“Mr. Brezhnev is busy.” He looked her over from top to bottom, a lecherous smile forming on his lips. “Pretty girl. Maybe if you show a little more skin, he’ll be interested.”
“I’m sure he would.” She folded her arms across her chest and frowned. Then she added in English, “Tell him it’s about Carter Brennen.”
From the look on the face of the guards, they were more surprised by the name she dropped than the sudden switch to English. One of them stepped past the rope and the woman watched as he whispered something to Brezhnev. Something that clearly caught the mobster’s attention, because he sat upright and placed his cigar in the ashtray, waving off his arm candy.
The guards led the two young women away, who protested and shot the new arrival dirty looks. The blond just ignored them and walked past the rope when the guard removed it for her. She sat in a chair across from Brezhnev and kept her eyes locked on him.
Brezhnev reached for a whiskey on the table and drank it slowly as he in turn watched his new companion. “American, yes?” He spoke English almost perfectly.
She gave a nod. “Once upon a time, anyway.”
“You said this is about Carter Brennen,” said Brezhnev. “Why would a pretty thing like you be interested in a man like that?”
“Because Brennen killed my husband.”
Brezhnev chuckled. “I’m sure he’s killed many husbands. Wives, too.” He leaned back and draped one arm along the back of the small couch. “Why come to me?”
She crossed her legs and placed her hands in her lap. “Brennen is an arms dealer. And I’ve been told no one moves any merchandise in Moscow without Nikolai Brezhnev’s knowledge.”
Brezhnev’s smile grew wider. “Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear.”
“All I want is a location. I know he’s in Russia and I know you’re the man to help me.”
He scratched under his chin and shrugged. “Maybe I know where he is. Maybe I don’t.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Nikolai.”
“Shall we examine the facts?” Brezhnev reached for his cigar and took a few puffs on the end. “Let’s say I did know where you could find Brennen. You were quite correct when you said nothing happens in this city without my knowledge. So if Brennen were conducting business in Moscow, that means not only would I be aware of it, but that I allowed it. And as I’m sure you’re well aware, Brennen does very well for himself.”
Brezhnev reached for the cigar case and offered it to his unnamed guest. She held up her hand in a refusal.
“What’s your point?” she asked.
“My point is I know Carter. He may be a…how you say…little shit. But he’s a profitable little shit. And you? I don’t know why it serves my interests to help you. I don’t know who you’re working for. I don’t even know your name.”
“You’re right. Then let me tell you.” She cleared her throat. “I work for myself, no one else. Like I told you, Brennen killed my husband. So I’m going to kill him. This is completely personal. And if you help me…” She looked out the corner of her eye at the guards who were now looking over their shoulders at her. “…I’ll let you and your men walk out of this club with your vital organs still intact.”
Brezhnev laughed at this and reached for his drink. He held up the glass to her in a toast. “I like you, my American friend. You have spunk. And what is your name?”
“Angela Lockhart.”
Brezhnev sipped his drink and shook his head. “Impossible. Angela Lockhart is dead.”
“No.” She smiled. “Not yet.”
Angela reached for her crossed leg, pulling the small gun free from her ankle holster. She aimed the gun at Brezhnev and opened fire, hitting him in the shoulder. The guards reached beneath their jackets and drew handguns, pouring bullets into the VIP booth.
Angela jumped behind her chair, using it for protection. As soon as she found an opening, she jumped from the balcony and caught onto one of the cages. The dancer inside screamed and cowered as Angela’s momentum sent them swinging.
Once she came close enough to the other cage, Angela jumped and caught onto those bars. She turned to look back where she had come from and Brezhnev’s guards were reloading their weapons, trying to aim at her.
Angela swung against the cage, the new dancer also screaming. When she got close enough, she jumped and flew across the gap, soaring into another VIP booth. She landed hard on the glass table and it shattered under her weight, covering her in alcohol and cigarette ash.
Shocked expressions and curses in Russian filled the booth. Angela ignored them and stood. Once they saw her gun, their curses turned to screams and they ran. Angela stepped over the rope and stuck her back to the wall, moving carefully along it and trying to see her pursuers.
A small opening led to the men’s and women’s bathrooms. Angela ducked inside and walked into the women’s bathroom, holding her gun under her jacket as she passed the girls who stood in front of the sinks, examining themselves in the mirror. She got into one of the stalls and climbed onto the toilet seat, crouching and holding the gun aimed at the door.
There were shocked gasps and then she heard male voices ordering the women out. Angela took a deep breath. This could have gone better. She looked down at the ground and saw one of the guard’s feet approach the stall door. He stood in front and gripped the door from the top, pulling on it. It wouldn’t budge.
Angela aimed at his fingers and pulled the trigger. His digits were reduced to stains and he screamed, pulling what was left of his hand from the door. She fired two more times through the door and saw him slump down through the gap at the bottom.
“Karl!” she heard his partner scream. Before he could fire at the stall, Angela kicked the door open and used it as a shield. She tossed her gun out onto the ground and then grabbed Karl’s handgun now that he wouldn’t need it.
The spray of bullets took down Karl’s partner and Angela took his gun. She went to the exit and stood against the wall. The door opened and Angela raised the weapons.
A scream was her response.
Angela sighed, looking into the face of a young brunette whose cry was loud enough to break glass.
“Out of order!” barked the former assassin.
The girl nodded quickly and ran. Angela stepped back out into the club and looked around. It was still Brezhnev and one more man, assuming Brezhnev hadn’t managed to escape yet.
The club was still jumping. The bass was loud enough to drown out the sound of the gunfire and not even Angela’s stunt jumping from the cages was enough to cause a stir. She stuffed the guns beneath her jacket as she tried to move through the crowd, when she noticed the group of people whose VIP booth she’d disturbed. They were talking to the club’s security, two large men in suits who walked towards her.
Angela didn’t want to hurt innocent bystanders. They had nothing to do with Brezhnev, they were just trying to keep the peace. But she also couldn’t risk being taken away.
“I have to ask you to leave, miss,” said the bouncer in Russian once he approached her.
Angela gave a nod and then swung her arm in an arc. She held the gun by the barrel and hit the bouncer across the face with the butt. The unexpected blow threw him to the side and he almost stumbled. She kicked him in the chest and he stumbled back into the second bouncer. Angela aimed both guns at them and they held up their arms.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” she said in Russian. “Go downstairs. Now.”
The men did as they were told, moving to the staircase and quickly descending. Angela turned away, ignoring the stares from the clubbers who watched her in shock. She walked around the length of the balcony area, making her way back to Brezhnev’s booth.
But when she got there, she saw he was gone. The cigar still sat in the tray. Angela looked closer at it and saw that it was smoldering. He couldn’t have been gone long. With the other two chasing her, the third must have tried to sneak him away.
The second floor had a large bay window that looked out over Moscow. Angela ran over to it and looked outside. It was positioned right over the front entrance of the club and she saw the taxis slowly moving away to make room for a limousine that pulled up to the front.
Two men ran from the front entrance, one of them holding the other low and a gun in his hand. It was the final guard, leading Brezhnev to his escape route.
Angela stepped back and ran at the window. She shot the glass and jumped, crossing her arms in front of her head as she plunged through the window, going into free-fall and landing right on the roof of the limousine.
The car sped off and Angela slipped, falling onto the trunk. She released one of the guns so she could grab onto the antenna on the trunk and hold on tight. Her legs fell over the edge and the soles of her boots scraped against the pavement, but she quickly pulled herself up and climbed onto the trunk.
Angela aimed her only remaining gun at the rear window and pulled the trigger. The glass was bulletproof, but it did spook the driver and he swerved, nearly throwing her off.
She held on tight and the driver swerved again, intentionally this time. She managed to keep her grip and then she saw the moonroof open. The guard stuck his head out and pulled something with him, aiming a pump-action shotgun right at Angela.
Just as he fired, Angela moved to the other side of the trunk, her feet resting perilously on the bumper. He pulled the handgrip to chamber a fresh round and in that short time it took, Angela was able to fire off a shot from her gun that forced him to duck to avoid getting hit.
Angela scrambled up the trunk and fired again, this time hitting him in the head. He fell back into the limousine and she heard Brezhnev curse in Russian. She dropped in through the moonroof and landed in the seat beside Brezhnev, her gun pointed at him.
Brezhnev pressed his body against the door. He made a move for the dropped shotgun, but Angela fired at it and he quickly pulled his hand back to avoid taking a bullet in it. Angela stuck her leg out and slid the shotgun over to her side of the limousine, keeping her handgun fixed on Brezhnev.
“Tell your driver to stop the car,” she said. “You and I are going to have a little talk.”
When retired Agency spymaster Mason Draconi is kidnapped, it's not the Cabal or the Agency that comes for him. It's Virgil—the man everyone thought Dante killed years ago. Back from the dead with a decade of patience, Virgil has a plan to burn Infernum, the Cabal, and Dante himself to the ground.
All he needs is an instrument, and he finds her in Julie Kim. What Virgil offers her is a chance at real justice for everyone and everything Infernum has cost her, wrapped around a warning: the second she uses what he's given her, there's no walking it back.
As Julie is pulled into Virgil's endgame, Tauna is drawn into the fallout of a war between two men who built an empire together and never forgave each other for what it cost them. Old loyalties fracture, old debts finally come due, and the shadow brokers who've spent their lives manipulating everyone else discover they can't manipulate their way out of each other.
Dante and Virgil built something together once. Now only one ending is left for them—if either survives it at all.
Shadow Brokers brings the Infernum series to its explosive conclusion, tying together assassins, spies, thieves, and the empire they all served—or destroyed. Fans of series finales that settle every score will find the ending they've been waiting for.
