Page 2
The wheel creaks under my grip, leather groaning as my knuckles bleach white against it. The black SUV growls beneath me, hungry and hot, each turn of the engine a pulse that matches my heartbeat. We fly through the city like a bullet through bone—precise, brutal, inevitable.
Boris is beside me, radio in one hand, barking clipped Russian into the mouthpiece.
“Southbound, approaching Grand. Sedan is damaged—rear axle dragging, he’s losing control. Push him.”
I don’t need to be told.
The city lights stutter across the windshield in streaks—green, gold, the occasional harsh red that blinks like a warning. But I don’t stop. Don’t even slow. My foot presses deeper into the gas pedal as we close the gap, inch by inch.
Ahead, Yuri’s car swerves violently to avoid a merging truck, skimming the lane divider with a screech of tortured metal. The bastard’s desperate. I can see it in the twitch of his brake lights, the way the battered sedan fishtails after every sharp turn. He’s running like a dog that knows the end is coming.
Good. He should.
“He’s panicking,” Boris mutters, leaning forward, voice lower now. “Almost hit that truck back there.”
“He doesn’t know the streets like I do,” I say, calm as steel. “We’ll box him before the bridge.”
I’ve chased men before. Watched them fold. Watched them run, lie, beg. It never ends any other way. They all think they’ll be the exception. That there’s still a path back to forgiveness, or mercy, or some quiet escape.
There isn’t, not from me.
The SUV lurches around a corner, tires screaming as we take the turn too fast. The scent of burning rubber fills the cabin. I catch a brief glimpse of Yuri’s silhouette through his cracked rear window—shoulders hunched, head darting side to side like he’s checking for angels or exit ramps. Neither will come.
He used to sit at my table. I bought his daughter birthday gifts. And still, he sold us out. Slipped information to the Italians for months, fed them intel like breadcrumbs. Men died because of him. My men. My blood.
That was his mistake, thinking trust was something I gave freely.
Boris clicks the radio again, sharp and quick. “Units closing from the east. Two minutes out.”
“Too long,” I reply.
My eyes don’t leave the road, but I can feel Boris watching me. He knows better than to question the calm in my voice. He’s seen what lives beneath it.
Yuri cuts hard to the left, narrowly avoiding a delivery van, then blasts through a red light. Horns erupt in every direction, brake lights flashing. Someone screams.
I follow without hesitation. A woman on the corner jumps back onto the curb as we barrel past. My tires hit a pothole and the SUV jolts beneath me, but I hold steady, hands tight, focus narrower than the road itself.
He’s trying to lose us in the old streets—cracked concrete, tighter curves, alleys that disappear into dead ends. I know this part of the city. He doesn’t.
His sedan scrapes the edge of a dumpster as he rounds a blind turn, the sound of metal tearing on metal echoing in the dark. A shard of bumper skids across the street. He’s bleeding pieces now—plastic, glass, whatever pride he still had.
“He won’t make it past the next intersection,” Boris says.
“He won’t make it to the next block.”
We’re less than a car length behind now.
I can smell the smoke.
Yuri guns the engine again, pulling into the oncoming lane. Headlights rush toward him—then veer wildly to avoid the impact. He cuts back, nearly clipping a fire hydrant, and barrels through a puddle, water arcing like blood from a fresh wound.
The SUV’s suspension groans beneath us, another corner, another swerve. I keep my grip steady, jaw locked so tight I hear the tendons creak. My eyes are fixed on the bastard ahead. I want him afraid. I want him to feel it clawing up his spine—that knowledge, deep and final, that he’s not walking away from this.
“He’s headed for Lincoln,” Boris warns. “You want the bridge closed?”
“No need.”
We hit the straightaway. The blocks narrow here, buildings leaning in, old concrete and graffiti-slicked brick closing around us like a throat.
Yuri’s car sways. His taillights flicker once—then vanish.
I see it happen before it does. He’s going too fast, taking the next turn too tight.
His wheels catch the edge of a raised curb, and then the world explodes.
The sedan spins hard, metal screeching like an animal. It slams sideways into a utility pole. The passenger side crumples inwards, folding like wet paper. The rear lifts off the pavement in a wild arc before slamming back down with a bone-rattling crash.
Glass rains across the street. Steam hisses from the hood and for a second, everything stops.
I ease the SUV to a crawl, then kill the engine. The silence feels colder than the air. I sit there, staring through the windshield at the wreckage—smoke curling into the night, the metal still groaning as it settles.
Inside, I see movement. A flicker. Yuri’s head against the window, barely upright.
“Still breathing,” Boris mutters.
Steam pours from the crumpled hood like the car itself is exhaling its last breath. I watch from behind the wheel, muscles coiled tight, jaw locked. The sedan is mangled—folded against the pole like a broken jaw—but it’s not enough. Not yet. Not until I see the body.
Then the door jerks open.
He stumbles out of the wreckage, blood slicking one side of his face, limping so hard it’s a miracle he’s upright. My hand tightens on the door handle. I’m out before he hits the pavement.
“Go,” I snap, voice low.
Boris doesn’t hesitate. We move at once.
Boots thunder against the asphalt as we give chase. The bastard lurches into a side alley, vanishing into the dark like a rat diving for cover. The air back here stinks—piss, rot, old grease—and it’s damp, slick with some kind of runoff I don’t want to identify. The walls close in on either side, the buildings leaning like drunks whispering to each other.
Yuri’s fast for someone dragging a bad leg. Desperate. Reckless. He crashes through a pile of trash bags, rebounds off a dumpster, somehow keeps his footing. I’m close enough now to hear his breathing—ragged, high, panicked.
He darts left. Mistake.
That path narrows into a funnel, one I know like the back of my hand. Dead-end. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to turn.
I pick up speed.
Ahead, Boris closes the gap. He launches himself forward—and tackles Yuri to the ground.
The impact’s hard. I hear it. Bones against pavement. A grunt, a curse. Boris moves to pin him, but Yuri thrashes like an animal, clawing, spitting, fighting for every inch of air.
He gets a fist in—catches Boris in the jaw. Another elbow to the ribs. It’s not skill. It’s pure survival. He breaks free, stumbling backward toward the wall, leaving a smear of blood where his hand scrapes the brick.
I draw my gun.
“Don’t—”
The word barely escapes his mouth before I fire.
The shot cracks the air like a whip. One bullet—clean, direct—slams into his thigh.
Yuri screams. Collapses. Hits the ground hard, writhing, clutching his leg. Blood pools fast beneath him, dark and slick, his fingers scrabbling at the wound like he can hold it in.
Boris stands to the side, shaking out his hand, lips curled in disgust. “He fights like a drunk.”
I walk forward slowly. No need to rush now. The echo of the shot still hangs in the air, ricocheting off brick and into the bones of the night.
Yuri’s gaze snaps up to me. His face is pale, bloodless, panic etched into every line.
“Kolya,” he gasps. “Please—”
I stop beside him. The gun hangs at my side, still warm in my palm. “You ran,” I say.
“I panicked,” he chokes out. “I wasn’t thinking—fuck, I wasn’t thinking.”
“You lied.”
“I was going to come back.” His voice breaks. “I was—I just needed time.”
“You sold us out.”
“I didn’t mean to—” He grabs at my ankle, blood smearing the leather of my boot. “They had my son. They threatened to kill him if I didn’t give them something. It was one drop. One piece of intel. That’s all—”
“There’s always a choice,” I say coldly.
He cries out again, hand going back to his thigh as the pain drags through him. He’s shaking now. Not from the cold. From fear. From knowing.
“You think I don’t know what they do to leverage loyalty?” I crouch beside him. “You think I’ve never had someone put a gun to someone I loved?”
Yuri’s lip trembles. “I didn’t want this.”
I gesture at the alley—the blood, the wreckage, the desperation. “You made your choice.”
Boris stands back, letting me handle it. He knows this part isn’t for him.
“You sat at my table,” I say, quieter now. “You toasted my name. You called me brother .”
Yuri’s breathing turns shallow. His eyes fill. “You can still use me. I’ll fix it. I’ll give you everything.”
I stare at him for a moment longer. Then I rise to my feet.
“Call Lev,” I say to Boris. “We need a cleanup crew.”
“You want him alive?”
“For now.”
Boris gives a nod, stepping away to make the call. The radio crackles faintly as he speaks.
I look down again. Yuri’s pressing both hands to the hole in his leg, face soaked in sweat.
“You’re going to bleed out if I don’t stop that,” I tell him. “But before I do, you’re going to talk.”
He shakes his head. “They’ll kill me.”
“Not before I do,” I say. “And I’ll make it slower.”
He whimpers.
I crouch again, this time so close I can smell his fear—salt and rust and the kind of sweat that only comes from knowing your end is right in front of you.
“Start talking.”
There’s a beat. A single second where he holds my gaze.
Then he breaks.
“I met them at a restaurant in Little Odessa. Two weeks ago. The Italian—Luca—he was there. He said they’d kill my son unless I gave them the drop point for the West End shipment.”
I say nothing.
“I did it once. Just once,” he pleads. “Then they came back. Asked for more. They knew everything. I think someone else is feeding them too. Someone from the inside.”
“Names,” I growl.
He swallows. “I don’t know. There’s a guy in our crew A driver. I don’t know his full name, just his face.”
I nod slowly.
Boris finishes the call and returns. “They’re on their way.”
“Good.”
I meet Yuri’s eyes one last time. “You gave them my routes. My people. My blood.”
“I was scared,” he whispers.
I lift the gun again. “You should be.”
The sound of sirens hums faintly in the distance—distant enough not to matter.
Lev’s men will be here soon. Until then, I’ve got time.
Yuri moans beneath me, the sound wet and broken, blood soaking fast through the fabric beneath his hands. His breath comes in quick, shallow gasps—shock setting in, pupils wide and glassy. He’s fading.
Too fast.
I don’t move at first. Just stand over him, chest rising hard, gun still loose in my grip. The air in the alley is cold, but sweat clings to the back of my neck. My jaw tightens. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
“We need a doctor,” Boris mutters, crouching beside Yuri. He peels back the soaked cloth, eyes narrowing at the angle of the wound. “Bullet missed the femoral, but barely. He’s bleeding out.”
“Patch him,” I growl.
Boris snorts. “With what? Duct tape? He’s got maybe fifteen minutes before he goes into full shock. Ten if he keeps thrashing like that.”
I kneel again, gripping the front of Yuri’s jacket. “You die before you talk, I’ll drag your soul out of hell myself and make you finish what you started.”
He barely hears me—eyes rolling, hands trembling.
Boris curses under his breath and straightens. “Both of our guys are out of the city. Pavlenko’s in Montreal. Kravchenko’s gone to fucking DC for that politician’s daughter.”
My pulse drums behind my eyes.
No doctor. No time. No margin for mistakes.
“Then get me a new one,” I say, rising to my full height. My voice cuts sharp, final. “I don’t care where. I don’t care how. Just make sure he doesn’t die.”
Boris doesn’t hesitate. He steps a few feet away, pulls out his phone, and starts dialing, voice already low and urgent.
I watch him from the edge of the shadows, blood pooling at my feet, leaking from a man who should’ve been dead hours ago. The steam from the car has faded now, leaving only the copper scent of blood and the bite of cold night air.
Boris says a name. Then another. His voice drops further.
I know—right then, standing there in that alley—that somewhere in this city, someone’s about to get pulled into our world. Someone who didn’t ask for it. Someone who won’t see it coming.
Boris hangs up with a single word: “Done.”
Whoever he finds—whoever he drags into this—they won’t be walking away clean.
They never do.