Chapter 7
Anton
Ipush the rubbery scrambled eggs around my plate, forcing myself to take another bite.
Tastes like cardboard soaked in grease, but my body needs fuel.
Haven’t eaten anything substantial in eighteen hours, and running on caffeine and adrenaline only works for so long before you start making mistakes.
And I can’t afford mistakes.
I’ve been camped in this corner booth for three hours now, back to the wall, eyes on both exits.
The vinyl seat is cracked and held together with duct tape, but it gives me a clear view of the parking lot and anyone coming through that door.
My Henley still reeks of motel mildew and cheap detergent, but it’s better than the expensive suit that screams “target.”
The moody waitress behind the counter keeps shooting me looks like she’s deciding whether to serve more coffee or call security. In the end, she decides not to fuck with me. Smart woman.
I couldn’t sleep last night. Not with the bed frame from Room 237 knocking against the wall like a damn metronome, two strangers going at it like rabbits on meth. The moans. The thuds. The headboard slamming in a rhythm that reminded me of things I’m trying to forget.
I tried drowning it out with spreadsheets.
Boris’s latest drop: a raw dump of transaction patterns, shell accounts, and red-flag filings tied to Brightside National. At least one of Igor’s inner circle has been laundering money. Quietly. Consistently. Sloppily.
I had just flagged another round of suspicious deposits when my phone buzzed.
Unknown: Didn’t expect you this side of Vegas.
No name. Just that.
I stared at it for a long time.
I must’ve gotten sloppy. Either that, or Vegas air makes ghosts talk. No one’s supposed to know I’m here—not in this part of town. If someone does, it means one of two things: I’ve got a leak. Or Ray Bishop still has better sources than the fucking CIA.
Blyat.
I don’t reply. But I’ve got a feeling. Only one man would send that message without a name and expect me to understand.
I pick up the cup in front of me and take a sip.
The coffee tastes like burned socks.
I push the mug away and glance toward the window. Neon flickers on the glass—“OPEN 24 HOURS”—like it’s hanging on by spite alone. The diner smells of grease, bleach, and cinnamon rolls no one’s ordered in three weeks.
But it’s quiet.
And for now, that’s enough.
I need somewhere to hole up. Quiet, disposable, off-grid. Four walls, no cameras, and silence that doesn’t sound like someone getting choked out or fucked half to death. The motel was supposed to be that. It failed.
I checked out of the motel, tossed the room key in the trash, didn’t look back.
My eyes drift to the black tactical duffel bag beside me on the seat.
Unremarkable canvas exterior, reinforced zippers, no brand markings.
Looks like something a gym rat would carry, but the weight distribution tells a different story.
Bottom compartment: disassembled Remington 700, scope, ammunition.
Middle section: clothes, cash, three different sets of identification.
Top: laptop, encrypted drives, and enough surveillance equipment to run a small operation.
Everything I own fits in that bag. Everything I need to disappear or eliminate a problem.
But right now, it just reminds me that I’m homeless.
I could get another motel room. Different part of town, better soundproofing. Or I could call Boris, see if he’s got a safe house available. Clean, professional, no questions asked.
Going back to the apartment where I found her? Not a chance. I’m not in the habit of revisiting complications. Especially not soft, curvy ones with mascara smudged into my couch cushions.
That couch—pink velvet with rhinestone buttons—looked like something out of a drag queen’s boudoir. Not my fucking taste.
But it was quiet there. Clean. And she—
Stop.
I zip the duffel closed and check my watch. 6:47 AM. Too early to call Boris. Too late to pretend I don’t have a problem.
The problem isn’t just where to sleep. It’s that every time I close my eyes, I see her. Wide hazel eyes, wine-stained lips…
Just then, the bell above the door jingles. I don’t look up.
But my hand drops to my thigh, fingers brushing the weight of the Glock holstered beneath my shirt. Right side. Concealed, but never out of reach.
Footsteps. A pause. Then—
“Jesus, man.” The voice cuts through my thoughts. “You look like you’ve been sleeping in a crackhouse.”
“Close,” I mutter, lifting my eyes now.
Ray Bishop slides into the booth across from me.
Older than me by ten years, ex-black ops turned freelance fixer.
We ran jobs together back when Vegas was still stitched together by blood money and handshake deals.
Before he went soft. Before he married some yoga teacher and started packing lunchboxes instead of heat.
He eyes me like I’m a ghost who forgot to stay dead. “You still staying at the Stardust?”
“No more.”
“That place is a health violation with carpet. I can smell the mold on your coat from here.”
“Don’t push it.”
He smirks and flags down the waitress with two fingers. “Coffee. Black. And throw a couple extra napkins at him before his jacket walks off on its own.”
I say nothing. Just let him talk. That’s always been our rhythm; him filling the space, me measuring the silence.
He leans back, fingers tapping a rhythm against the salt shaker. “Still on that Bratva errand?”
“Still chasing shadows.”
He whistles low. “Gotta be serious if they’ve got you doing the sniffing. Thought you only got called when someone needed a kneecap restructured.”
I don’t answer. He knows better than to push for details.
After a moment, he shrugs. “Got a place. One of my old units. I use it as a crash pad when the wife kicks me out for forgetting preschool pickup. No neighbors, no lease, no cameras. One-bedroom. Clean fridge. You want it?”
I nod once. “How much?”
“Free. Consider it nostalgia tax. And maybe you’ll babysit next time we get desperate.”
I snort. “You’d leave your kid with me?”
“Hell, no. But I like watching you squirm at the idea.”
The waitress drops off our drinks and disappears. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat sink into my fingers. The truth is, I don’t have friends. Not really. Just people who owe me. Or survived shit alongside me. Ray is both.
He glances toward the window. “So what’s the deal with your eyes?”
I frown. “What?”
“You keep looking at the corner like someone’s gonna shoot through the blinds.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
There’s a car out there. Parked too long. Engine off. No lights. Just sitting.
I’ve seen it twice now; once last night outside the motel, and now again here. White Nissan. No stickers. No damage. Clean plates.
Too clean.
Ray follows my gaze. “You expecting company?”
“No.”
“Want me to run that plate?”
“No.”
Because if it is who I think it is… I already know.
Igor, my own fucking Pakhan, doesn’t send warnings. He sends watchers. Reminders that he’s always ten steps ahead, even when you’re doing his dirty work.
He’s testing me.
Ray raises an eyebrow, then drops it. “Right. Bratva business.”
I take a slow sip of the burned coffee and set it down again. “More like Bratva paranoia.”
Ray gives a dry chuckle. “Igor still seeing ghosts in his sleep?”
“He’s convinced there’s a traitor in his inner circle. Says someone’s been feeding intel to the outside.”
Ray leans back. “What does he consider ‘outside’? You? Because let’s be honest, Anton, if Igor’s bleeding money and you’re the one following the trail, it doesn’t take a genius to guess who he thinks is holding the knife.”
I don’t answer. But the silence says enough.
Ray snorts. “Jesus. You’ve given him what, fifteen years? Twenty?”
“Nineteen.”
He whistles low. “And he still doesn’t trust you?”
“He doesn’t trust anyone.”
Ray taps a finger on the mug. “Yeah, well… you’re not just anyone to him. Word is, people have started looking at you differently. Like you’re the next in line.”
“I’m not.”
“I didn’t say you were. I said they think you are. There’s a difference.”
I stare at the car again. The window’s fogged slightly now, like someone’s breathing inside. Watching.
Ray follows my eyes again, quieter now. “You think he’d do it?”
“What?”
“Take you out before you get too… popular.”
I don’t blink. “If he thought he had to? Yeah.”
Ray exhales and rubs his jaw. “Fucking hell. The man’s pushing seventy and still can’t let go. Still no heir?”
“No one who stuck around. The last one died in a ‘boating accident.’” I gesture quotes with my fingers. “Right after he called Igor unfit to lead.”
Ray mutters under his breath. “That makes three wives, two advisors, and no potential heir. Either the man’s got cursed luck or he’s playing God a little too often.”
“He thinks losing control is the same as dying.”
Ray’s voice softens. “He’s not wrong. Not in that world.”
I glance at him. “And what about you? You got out. Found yourself a yoga wife and a toddler who paints the walls. You ever look over your shoulder?”
“All the fucking time.” He grins faintly. “But it’s different when you’re not living on someone else’s leash. You should try it sometime.”
“I’m not built for normal.”
Ray shrugs. “No one is. Until they are.”
I look down at the mug, then at the address he gave me.
Desert Palms. A throwaway apartment with no ties. A quiet place for someone like me to disappear.
Ray shifts. “You want the key now, or you coming with me?”
“Give me the key.”
He pulls a folded envelope from his jacket and slides it across the table. “Key’s inside. It’s a third-floor unit. Shit exterior, solid walls. Quiet neighbors. Or deaf.”
I tuck the envelope into my coat.
Then glance at the window again.
Car’s gone.
Just like that.
No engine. No headlights. No movement. Gone like it was never there.
Ray leans forward, dropping his voice. “Let me guess: Igor told you this isn’t just about money, right? That it’s personal. A message. Some legacy shit.”
I don’t respond. But again, I don’t have to.
He studies me for a long moment. “You think he’s got someone watching you.”
“Not just think.”
He mutters, “Old bastard’s getting scared.”
“Scared men are dangerous.”
“So are men with nothing left to prove.” Ray downs the rest of his coffee. “You ever think he’s not testing your loyalty anymore? Just measuring how long you’ll stay quiet.”
I meet his eyes.
“He’ll die before he hands me the throne.”
Ray shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe he plans to bury you with it.”
And if that day comes—if Igor ever decides I’m a threat instead of a weapon—I won’t be sitting here, waiting for death to find me.
I’ll be ready.
I just hope it doesn’t come to that.