Tom nodded curtly, fingering his gun. The club was chaos, but the back alley was dark and oil slicked and very carefully unmonitored. Mike was out the door first, the small man between them, and Tom watched the bob and weave of his small head, narrow shoulders, and realized it had been years since he'd had to kill someone.

Well. There were worst places to start, if it came to that.

Tom let the door shut behind him, moving to stand between Mike and the man and the mouth of the alley. Nothing but a dead end and two pissed off ex-military guys that were desperate as hell.

"You said something about Sasha?" Tom said slowly, fingers curling on the butt of his gun.