Chapter 5
XANDER
The warehouse sits on the outer ring of Moscow where industrial buildings decay between railroad tracks and empty lots.
I've been watching the Brotherhood's operations here for three days, learning their patterns and timing.
I have to admit it's a perfect location for the shady shit they do, but it’s also very isolated.
Excellent for what I'm about to perpetrate.
Two vehicles arrive at midnight carrying four soldiers each and enough heroin to fund their operations for months.
I'm no fool. I know it was stolen from our shipments, refined in their laboratories, ready for distribution through networks they built by muscling in on our territory.
But tonight their expansion ends.
Igor positions himself at the rear exit while Ivan covers the loading dock.
I take the main entrance, automatic rifle loaded with hollow-point ammunition that will drop targets immediately.
It's going to be loud and messy, but it promises to yield eight bodies to my count, and that means one-tenth of the list I have to tackle before New Year's.
The Brotherhood’s soldiers move through their transaction without the foggiest clue I'm hunting them.
They believe superior tactics and careful planning make them untouchable.
It's somewhat of a blind spot I've allowed them to have, and it proves fatal when I kick open the front door and begin firing.
The first soldier drops before he can reach for his weapon.
The chest shot punches through his sternum and exits between his shoulder blades, painting the concrete behind him with blood and tissue.
His partner spins toward the sound of gunfire and takes two rounds center mass, folding over a shipping crate and sliding to the floor.
Muzzle flashes illuminate the warehouse interior in strobing bursts.
Shell casings ring against concrete as they hit the ground.
The smell of cordite fills the air while the Brotherhood's carefully planned operation dissolves into chaos and screaming.
My men move quickly as I push through the front.
I hear their shouts and the ricochet of their rounds as they stalk their own prey in the dark.
The third soldier reaches cover behind a forklift and returns fire, his shots sparking off metal supports and shattering windows.
I advance carefully, using shipping containers for cover while closing the distance between us.
Fear makes him sloppy and panic ruins his aim.
I put three rounds through the forklift's engine block, and like a scared child, he runs.
He breaks cover, running toward the loading dock where Ivan waits with a shotgun.
The blast takes off most of his head, dropping him in a tangle of limbs and spreading brain matter across twenty feet of concrete.
The fourth soldier tries to escape through the rear exit and runs directly into Igor's rifle.
Single shot to the throat that severs his carotid artery and drops him to his knees, choking on his own blood.
He bleeds out in less than thirty seconds, hands pressed uselessly against the wound while his life pumps onto the warehouse floor.
And it's over almost instantly, only four minutes from entry to silence.
The Brotherhood's smuggling operation at this facility has been reduced to corpses and overturned crates.
I offer no mercy or explanation, and these men have learned that.
Exactly the message I intended to send.
"Secure the perimeter," I order my men.
"Watch for police response or Brotherhood reinforcements."
Igor and Ivan take positions near the windows while I examine our work.
Eight bodies total, multiple blood pools, scattered shell casings and bullet holes in the concrete walls.
Too much evidence to disappear through conventional cleanup methods.
This scene requires professional attention, and I need my men to help her.
We have to make sure not a single shred of evidence links us back to this place.
I retrieve the burner phone from my coat and dial Nadya's number.
She answers on the second ring, though her voice is thick with fatigue.
"Hello?"
"Industrial warehouse at Seventy-Three Ryazansky Prospekt. Come alone. Bring extra supplies."
I end the call without waiting for her response because I know she'll respond.
She hasn't said a word to anyone yet, which means she understands my threat and wants to live.
The girl has been employed by my organization for one week, though I've only tested her on the one job.
Tonight will determine whether she can handle the scale of violence my war against the Brotherhood requires.
Thirty minutes later, headlights sweep across the warehouse windows as her taxi arrives.
I watch her pay the driver and gather several bags of cleaning supplies from the trunk.
I'm going to have to work on that.
I can't have her using public transportation that could be linked back to places like this, or to her.
She walks toward the entrance with steady steps despite having no idea what waits inside.
She enters through the main door and stops when she sees the bodies.
The scale of violence makes her previous work look trivial.
"Jesus Christ," she whispers.
"He's not available for consultation tonight," I tell her.
"But I am…" I glance up as Igor walks in with a few body bags from my trunk, and Ivan is behind him.
Nadya stares at the carnage for ten seconds before setting down her supplies and beginning to examine the scene.
She rubs her face roughly and sucks in a breath, clearly in shock.
"How long do I have?" she says without looking at me.
"As long as it takes to do the job properly. Police response time in this area is forty minutes minimum, but we haven't heard sirens. Igor and Ivan will do the heavy lifting. Just tell them what to do. We have until dawn before shift workers arrive at neighboring businesses."
I set my weapon down and pull a cigarette from the pocket of my jacket, and she scowls at me as I light it up.
"Do you have to?" she snips as she begins taking cleaning supplies out of her bag.
The snarky expression she gives me makes me smirk at her.
No one in their right mind would speak to me that way.
I like that.
She's sassy, and she's beautiful at the same time.
"Shut the fuck up and clean," I grumble, taking a long drag.
Nadya huffs and starts putting on a pair of purple latex gloves, but I can tell she's overwhelmed by the sheer size of this job.
"Start with the bodies," I order.
"Bag them first, then work on the blood."
Nadya glares at me and approaches the nearest corpse.
She rolls him onto the plastic sheeting that Igor hands her and together, they wrap the man up and roll him into a body bag.
One down, seven to go, and she keeps looking at me.
When she turns her back and bends at the waist to stretch out another strip of plastic, I check out her ass.
Attractive woman.
I noticed that during our previous encounter, but watching her work now brings the observation into sharper focus.
That long, dark hair would be perfect for pulling, and her slender neck would bulge so perfectly with my cock shoved down it.
I find myself being aroused by the idea of fucking her, especially when she glares at me so hostilely.
She wears fitted jeans that accentuate curves I didn't fully appreciate before.
The way she bends over the corpses gives me clear views of an ass that belongs in expensive lingerie rather than those pants that are getting stained with blood.
When she sheds her coat in a huff of frustration and sweat, I notice her sweater molds to breasts that would fit perfectly in my hands.
Fucking her would feel good for a moment, but it might screw with my focus.
So I keep my thoughts to myself, but seeing how well she handles herself under such pressure is a real fucking turn-on.
It takes two hours of steady work. Nadya scrubs blood from concrete, collects shell casings, patches bullet holes with industrial compound that will fool casual inspection.
She dismantles the crime scene systematically, applying forensic knowledge to ensure it's done properly, and orders my men around like she owns them.
She's got more balls than half the men working for me.
"You've done this before," I observe during a break while she changes equipment.
"Cleaned crime scenes? No. But I've studied them extensively."
She tests a section of concrete with a chemical solution that reveals hidden blood traces.
"Understanding how evidence forms helps you understand how to eliminate it."
"What did you study besides forensic methods?"
"Chemistry, biology, anatomy. Criminal psychology, investigative procedures, laboratory analysis."
Her voice grows wistful.
"I wanted to work for the state forensics lab. Solve murders, identify victims, help families find closure."
"Instead, you're helping me avoid consequences…"
I muse, and for a moment, it makes her pause in her scrubbing.
She looks at me directly for the first time tonight, and I see pain mixed with resignation in her eyes.
"I'm surviving," she says quietly.
True enough. Survival requires adaptation, and she's adapted to circumstances that would break weaker people.
And the combination of intelligence, competence, and moral flexibility makes her valuable beyond simple evidence disposal.
It also makes her dangerously attractive.
I've spent the past two hours watching her move, appreciating the way her jeans highlight the curve of her hips, the way her sweater reveals glimpses of cleavage when she bends over her work.
I think even Ivan and Igor would admit she's completely fuckable.
But they're smart enough to keep their mouths shut and work.
"Why did your mother's illness end your education?" I ask.
"Medical bills consumed our savings. I couldn't afford tuition and hospital expenses simultaneously."
She returns to scrubbing, voice becoming flat and controlled.
"Cancer treatment is expensive even with state insurance."
"No other family support?"
"My sister worked double shifts to help, but nursing salaries don't stretch far enough to cover everything. And she's a single mother—husband ran off to the States with someone he met online."
Nadya's brush works methodically across the stained concrete.
"Someone had to make sacrifices. My education seemed less important than my mother's life."
The sacrifice didn't save her mother, though, leaving Nadya with debt and unfinished dreams.
Circumstances that made her desperate enough to answer my vague classified ad and vulnerable enough to accept the work instead of going straight to the police.
"Do you regret the choice?"
She considers the question while working on a stubborn blood stain.
"I regret that choosing became necessary. But family comes first, always."
Loyalty.
Another useful trait in someone whose silence I require and whose cooperation I need.
She'll endure considerable hardship to protect people she loves, which gives me leverage over her behavior.
And a rock-hard dick.
God, I want to fuck this woman so badly.
Why does she turn me on so much?
"The children you mentioned," I continue.
"Tell me about them."
"Anya is eight, brilliant with mathematics and determined to become a doctor. Mikhail is six, obsessed with fairy tales and convinced he'll grow up to slay dragons."
Her voice softens when she talks about them.
"They still believe the world rewards good people and punishes evil ones."
"Innocent assumptions."
"Childhood should enjoy innocence for as long as possible."
She looks up from her work again.
"They've lost enough already."
The protective instinct in her voice confirms what I suspected.
Threaten those children, and Nadya will comply with any demand to keep them safe.
The knowledge provides excellent insurance against betrayal or rebellion, and perhaps other leverage too—if it comes to that.
Five hours after beginning, she finishes the cleanup completely.
My men have dragged off the corpses for disposal in the river, and the warehouse looks exactly as it did before the Brotherhood's soldiers arrived for their final transaction.
"Acceptable work," I tell her while inspecting the results.
Relief floods her face at the evaluation.
She strips off the latex gloves and gathers her remaining supplies, exhaustion finally showing after hours of intensive work under extreme stress.
I hand her another thick stack of rubles, and she takes the money without counting it, trusting that I'll honor our arrangement as long as she honors hers.
"When will you call again?" she asks.
"When I need you."
And I watch her face contort in anguish.
For a split second, I wish I had a time and day, simply to make that fleeting discomfort vanish from her face.
But I can't always know when the next job will happen.
"What am I supposed to tell my sister, then? I have to have regular hours or she'll suspect. She's not a stupid woman, Xander."
The way Nadya says my name makes my blood pump harder.
I picture her lips forming those letters as I drive into her and find myself reaching for her, brushing a single strand of hair away from her eyes with only the tip of my pinky.
"I could have a job for you every night if you want," I growl, making my insinuation very obvious to her.
I follow that growl with a devilish smirk and watch as color stains her cheeks and her lips flush a dark red.
"I have to go," she snips and pulls away from me.
"Are you sure you don't want regular hours? They don't pay as well, but I could spare some pocket change."
My cock is throbbing and if she looked down at my jeans, she'd see how hard I am.
"No, thank you. Just call me when you've murdered more innocent people."
Nadya scowls at me and side steps, walking around me.
I watch her leave, appreciating the view of her body in motion, the graceful way she carries herself despite the horrific work she's just completed.
She's intelligent, competent, motivated by family loyalty and controlled by carefully applied threats.
Her forensic training makes her invaluable for evidence disposal, and her desperate circumstances ensure continued cooperation.
And better yet, she's got the kind of curves that would look perfect pressed against my body, the kind of face that would be gorgeous looking up at me from her knees with my dick in her mouth.
I should view her as a tool to be discarded when she's no longer useful.
Resources in my world have temporary value, and people become liabilities when their knowledge makes them dangerous.
So she's resisting me, and I assume she'll be the sort of woman who fights me if I try to take what I want.
But she is good at what she does, and I need someone like her to do the job she's doing for me.
Might as well enjoy the view while she does it.