Page 31

DIMITRI

The warehouse appears in the distance, its rusted exterior illuminated by the harsh orange glow of the setting sun.

Everything about the building screams forgotten and forsaken, except I know who lurks inside.

Andrei Morozov. The man who has haunted my every breath since I stepped out of that prison cell.

The man who dared to lay his filthy hands on Sandy.

My knuckles ache as I grip the steering wheel. The familiar burn of rage courses through my veins, but I keep it contained. Cold and controlled. The way I handle all my business. Emotions have no place in what is about to happen.

Viktor drives the lead SUV, and I follow close behind in the second, our convoy of blacked-out vehicles rolling down the abandoned industrial strip like harbingers of death. My gun sits on the seat beside me loaded and ready. My fingers twitch with the need to wrap around its grip. To end this.

The radio crackles with static. “Two minutes,” Viktor's voice comes through, calm and measured.

“Copy,” I respond, checking my rearview mirror. Two more vehicles trail behind mine, filled with my most trusted men. Men who will kill without question. Men who understand the gravity of tonight's mission.

We stop a half mile out from the warehouse.

The engines die one by one until silence blankets the air.

I step out into the cool night air, which does nothing to quell the fury burning inside me.

Aleksandr exits the first SUV, and we gather behind an old shipping container to review the plan one last time.

“He's expecting us to come in through the front,” Aleksandr says, his voice a low growl as he spreads a crude map across the hood of the car.

“So, we won't. Ivan and Yuri will take the back entrance with their teams. Dimitri and I go through the north entrance.

Viktor cuts the power once we're inside. No mercy. No hesitation. We find Morozov, and we end him.”

A hard nod passes between us. I stay silent. Nothing I say can change what is coming. Only blood and fire will speak for me tonight.

I pull my gun from its holster, checking it systematically. I slide it back into place and arm myself with additional weapons. The cold metal against my skin grounds me.

“Ten minutes to positions,” Aleksandr instructs, checking his watch. “Communications check.”

One by one, my men confirm their radios are operational. This isn’t our first ambush, but the stakes have never been higher for me.

As the others disperse to their positions, Aleksandr catches my arm. “ Brat ,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Don't lose focus. Remember what happened in Odessa.”

I shrug off his hand. “Odessa was different.”

“Was it?” His gaze pierces through me. “You let personal feelings cloud your judgment. It nearly got you killed.”

“I won't make the same mistake twice.” My voice betrays nothing of the turmoil inside me.

“See that you don't.”

The cool night air brushes against my exposed skin as we approach the north entrance of the warehouse. My breath comes slow and deliberate, and every sense heightens to excruciating awareness.

The steel doors of the north entrance creak open under my hand. We slip inside, the darkness enveloping us whole. My pulse remains steady. The dangerous calm that comes before blood is spilled.

Inside, the warehouse stinks of mildew, oil, and rotting wood. Stacks of rusted crates loom around us. A generator hums somewhere in the distance, and above it, a low, guttural laugh drifts from the far corner.

I signal Aleksandr. We move like specters through the gloom, navigating by memory and instinct.

“Power going down in thirty seconds,” Viktor whispers through the comm.

Two guards round the corner, their figures barely visible in the dim light. I put them down without a sound. One bullet each, clean through the skull. They drop before their weapons even clear their holsters.

Behind me, Aleksandr moves with similar efficiency, taking down another guard who appears from a side passage. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

“North corridor secure,” I murmur into the comm.

“East side meeting resistance,” comes Ivan's strained reply, followed by the distant pop of gunfire.

We sweep through the corridors, advancing deeper into the warehouse. The sounds of combat echo from multiple directions, our men engaging Morozov's guards in short, brutal bursts. A sudden crackle over the comm confirms Viktor has cut the power. The warehouse plunges into total darkness.

Perfect.

I flip down my night vision goggles, and the world transforms into shades of green. I move with renewed confidence, scanning each room we pass. They’re all empty.

Where is he keeping her?

A guard appears at the end of the hallway, alerted by the sounds of gunfire. I take aim and squeeze the trigger. His body crumples to the floor.

“We found something,” Yuri's voice comes through the comm. “Lower level. Looks like an entrance to a basement or sublevel. Heavily guarded.”

My heart rate picks up slightly. “On my way. Hold position.”

I signal to Aleksandr, and we change direction, heading toward the coordinates Yuri sent.

As we approach, the sounds of gunfire intensify. Yuri and his team exchange fire with at least six of Morozov's men, using a stack of crates as cover.

Aleksandr analyzes the situation in seconds. “Dimitri, left flank. I'll take the right.”

I move into position, using the darkness to my advantage. Morozov's men are focused on Yuri's frontal assault, leaving their sides vulnerable.

I emerge from behind a concrete pillar and open fire. Two men go down immediately. The others turn in confusion, caught between multiple lines of attack. Aleksandr's bullets find two more. The last pair attempts to retreat, but Yuri's team cuts them down before reaching the door they are guarding.

Silence falls again, broken only by the distant sounds of combat elsewhere in the warehouse.

“Clear,” Aleksandr announces after checking the bodies.

I approach the door the guards were protecting. It is heavy steel with an industrial-grade lock. “Viktor, we need tools.”

Within minutes, Viktor arrives with the equipment. The lock surrenders to our efforts and the door swings open to reveal a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

“I go first,” I demand, my voice leaving no room for argument.

“I’ll go with Dimitri. The rest of you secure the perimeter,” Aleksandr commands.

The stairwell is tight, forcing us to descend into a single file. My gun remains aimed ahead, ready for any threat. The air grows colder and damper with each step. The warehouse's basement stretches out before us, a maze of concrete pillars and abandoned equipment.

Aleksandr and I stalk through the basement level, checking every room and every corner. Where would Morozov take her? What is his plan?

The answer comes in the form of gunfire erupting from the far end of the basement. I sprint toward the sound, abandoning all pretense of stealth.

I burst into a large open area that once served as storage. Three of my men are engaged in fierce combat with Morozov's guards. Bodies already litter the ground.

I join the fray without hesitation, my bullets finding their marks with deadly precision. One by one, Morozov's men fall. But they buy their boss time.

“There's another level below,” one of my wounded men gasps, pointing toward a metal trapdoor. “They went down there.”

I nod once, then turn to Aleksandr. “I'm going after Morozov.”

“Not alone,” Aleksandr protests.

“Yes, alone.” My tone brooks no argument. “This is between me and him now.”

Before he can respond, I cross to the trapdoor and heave it open. Another set of stairs, cruder than the first, disappears into darkness. I descend without hesitation, my gun leading the way.

The air turns thick with moisture and the unmistakable scent of blood. My night vision goggles reveal a series of small chambers, likely used for storage in the past. Most stand empty, their doors hanging open on rusted hinges.

A guard appears from an adjacent room. I take a grazing hit to my shoulder, but adrenaline dulls the pain to nothing more than an irritating burn. I return fire, watching my opponent slump against the wall.

Silence descends once more. I pause, listening intently. A faint sound reaches my ears. Voices are coming from the furthest chamber.

I approach cautiously, my gun held ready. The door to the final room stands slightly ajar, a thin strip of light spilling onto the concrete floor. I position myself beside the frame, listening.

“...thought you were smarter than this.” It is Sandy's voice, though strained with fear and exhaustion.

“Smart enough to lure your attack dog here.” Morozov's reply is smug and confident.

I take a slow, steady breath. Then I kick the door open and enter in one fluid motion.

And that's when I see her. It instantly makes my rage intensify to a calculated fury more dangerous than any blind anger.

Sandy is on her knees in the center of a cell in the small room, her hands bound behind her back. Her face is bruised, a trickle of blood running from her split lip. But her eyes burn with an unbroken spirit as they meet mine.

Behind her stands Morozov, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pressing a gun against her temple. His face splits into a cruel smile when he sees me.

“You're too late,” Morozov sneers, pressing the barrel harder against Sandy's skin. “I already marked her. Just like you marked my brother for death.”