Chapter 11 Xander
XANDER
The church courtyard empties slowly after the christening ceremony, families bundling their children against the cold while chatting about the celebration.
I watch from across the street as my targets emerge from the crowd—two men in expensive coats who handle money laundering for the Brotherhood's remaining operations.
They think their presence on sacred ground provides protection.
And the irony of conducting surveillance outside a house of worship doesn't escape me.
These bastards think hiding among the parishioners will save them, but I know it won't.
Not when I'm stalking them.
My phone buzzes with a text from one of my soldiers confirming the targets' identities.
These men funneled Brotherhood profits through shell companies and offshore accounts, making them valuable sources of intelligence about remaining family assets.
Taking them alive would provide names and locations I need to complete Markov's deadline.
The crowd thins as families depart, leaving the courtyard nearly empty.
The men walk toward their car while discussing business in voices that carry across the cold air.
Perfect timing for what comes next.
I cross the street and approach from behind, letting my footsteps announce my presence only when escape becomes impossible.
The taller one turns first, eyes widening as he recognizes me from somewhere, likely photos he's been shown to hunt me down.
The second one reaches inside his coat but stops when my gun appears in his peripheral vision.
"Hands where I can see them," I tell them quietly.
"No sudden movements."
The men comply, raising their arms while scanning for witnesses or escape routes.
The courtyard offers neither.
Church services have ended, and the afternoon sun creates long shadows that conceal our interaction from passing traffic.
"We're unarmed," the tall one says, and his voice is miraculously steady.
"Just businessmen leaving a family celebration."
Just a businessman, huh?
Someone who's had a gun to his head enough times to be comfortable with it and know when death is or isn't imminent.
I can't pull the trigger here unless I’m prepared to answer questions.
But I will take the risk if it means my own life is spared.
"Businessmen who launder money for the Brotherhood."
I gesture toward the street with my weapon.
"Walk to the black sedan. Get in the back seat. Try to run and I'll put bullets in your legs first."
They move toward my car while I maintain distance behind them.
One of them glances back once, like he’s trying to find a path to escape but the odds don't go in his favor.
They reach the vehicle and climb inside without further protest.
I slide into the passenger seat and Igor, driving, pulls the car into Moscow traffic, heading toward a safehouse in an industrial district where screams won't attract attention.
The entire drive is tense, my gun locked on the back seat.
Neither of them speaks, but I notice one of them uses his fingers to sign something to the other.
"Where are you taking us?" the tall one asks after several minutes.
"Somewhere we can have a private conversation about Brotherhood finances."
"We don't know anything about—"
The lie dies when Igor brakes suddenly, throwing both men forward against the seat dividers.
Pain teaches honesty more effectively than threats, and it makes me chuckle darkly.
"Next lie costs you teeth," I say calmly as the car resumes normal speed.
"We both know what you do for Arkady's organization. The only question is whether you cooperate willingly or I extract information through alternative methods."
For the rest of the drive, they have glares on their faces and squared shoulders.
We park behind a warehouse that serves as one of several interrogation facilities scattered throughout the city.
The building appears abandoned from the outside but contains soundproofed rooms and equipment necessary for serious conversations.
"Out of the car," I order.
"Walk straight to the door."
My gun is still at ready, poised to end a life or take out a knee cap, whichever seems easier to me.
Though I need information from them, so knee caps would be my go to.
They follow my orders like men who understand their situation.
They are marching toward torture or death and they know it.
I unlock the entrance and guide them inside, past empty offices toward the basement stairs.
The air grows colder as we descend, and I notice the shorter one shivering from more than temperature.
The basement contains a single room with concrete walls and basic furniture.
A chair sits in the center under harsh fluorescent lighting while tools hang from wall-mounted hooks.
Both men stop when they see the setup, recognizing its purpose.
Igor follows us as my backup, just in case either of them gets any funny ideas.
"Sit," I tell them, gesturing toward the chair.
The taller one moves toward the chair first, while the other stands against the far wall, watching with growing alarm.
I select a knife from the tool collection and test its edge against my thumb.
Sharp enough for the work ahead.
"One of you handles money transfers for three of your remaining cells," I begin conversationally.
"The other manages cryptocurrency exchanges and offshore banking. Both of you know account numbers, passwords, and transfer protocols."
"We're legitimate businessmen," the seated man repeats weakly.
I step forward and drive the knife through his left hand, pinning it to the chair’s arm.
His scream echoes off concrete walls while blood pools beneath the wound.
His buddy presses himself against the wall, eyes wide with terror.
His gaze flicks to the doorway where Igor pulls the thick, reinforced steel door shut, effectively locking us into this room unless I give a signal.
"Account numbers," I say, twisting the blade.
His resolve crumbles immediately.
He provides bank details, cryptocurrency wallets, and transfer codes while tears stream down his face.
The information flows between gasps of pain as I document each piece of intelligence on my phone.
It was too easy, like stealing candy from a baby.
Arkady's men are weak fuckers who give him up like they’re serving dinner at a party.
"Excellent cooperation," I tell him, removing the knife.
"Now I need locations where your people conduct business."
More information follows.
Addresses, meeting times, security procedures.
He describes operational details between sobs while his friend remains frozen against the wall.
Fear makes men talkative when properly applied.
"One final question," I say, approaching the short man.
"Arkady's current location."
"He moves constantly," he stammers.
"Never stays in one place more than a day or two."
His words are rushed, scattered.
He's terrified of me.
What he doesn't understand is he's not getting out of this alive anyway.
Singing like a fucking canary and he'll still burn.
I'd be ashamed as hell if this were my man, and he'd earn the same fate in the end too.
"But you know his schedule. You transfer his money, which means you know where he'll be next."
He looks at his buddy's bleeding hand and makes his decision.
He provides three addresses where Arkady conducts business this week, along with times and security arrangements.
Valuable intelligence that justifies the afternoon's work.
"Thank you both for your cooperation," I say, holstering the knife.
The bleeding fucker slumps in his chair, clutching his wounded hand while the other slides down the wall to sit on the floor.
Neither man speaks as I collect my phone and prepare to leave.
Their usefulness has ended, and Igor will do the dirty deed for me this time, somewhere I don't need to clean up.
Walking out of the room, I give Igor a nod, and before I'm even to the staircase, I hear screams.
It's like music to my ears.
I climb the basement stairs already planning how to approach the next leg of my journey.
The interrogation provided enough intelligence to plan strikes against remaining Brotherhood operations.
Account numbers will let me freeze their financial resources while location data enables tactical assaults.
But the afternoon's work left me with injuries of my own.
Slamming that knife into that man's hand opened something in my shoulder that hasn't quite healed yet.
I can feel the moisture under the stitches and know I'm bleeding again.
I could live with the pain, but I can't be dripping everywhere I go.
I need supplies and medical attention, but hospitals ask questions I can't answer.
Instead, I dial Nadya's number while driving toward my safehouse where I can address the reopened wound privately.
"Yes?"
Her voice sounds tired even though it's not very late at all.
"I need you to bring medical supplies and food to an address I'm sending you. Come quickly."
"What happened?"
"Nothing serious, but I need help. Alright?"
After the last time she doctored me, I have no doubt she can help.
This should be basic first aid for her now, not the borderline surgery she did last time.
The line goes quiet for a moment before she says, "I'll be there in an hour."
As promised, an hour later, Nadya arrives carrying grocery bags and a medical kit stolen from her sister's nursing supplies.
She takes one look at my torn shirt and sets everything on the kitchen counter carefully, but her eyes are locked on me with concern etched on her forehead in crevices.
"What did you do this time?" she snips, and I chuckle darkly.
"Okay, Mamochka," I say, grinning, and she scowls.
"Take off your shirt," she orders, unpacking bandages and antiseptic.
"It's not that serious. I think I just busted a stitch or something."
"Stop joking around and let me see it already."
Nadya is a force to be reckoned with and I know my decision to keep her was a good one.
Markov will see it too when he allows himself to.
I comply, peeling the blood-stained shirt off and tossing it aside.