Chapter 15 Xander
XANDER
Three days pass before I take Nadya with me to the market.
The intelligence came through my contacts at dawn—a courier moving money through the Novy God crowds, using the festival chaos as cover.
The perfect opportunity to intercept Brotherhood funds and gather information about their operations.
And a good reason to spend more time with her in a way that doesn't feel like we're just colleagues.
Nadya sits in the passenger seat as I navigate Moscow's morning traffic, her hands folded in her lap.
She agreed to help with planning after that night in my apartment, though she hasn't said the words aloud.
But when I ask her questions she gives analytical answers and they're helpful.
I've given her files on the burner phone and I know she's using them.
I count the views on each document and know she's accessed them.
Her presence in the car feels less like resistance now, and more like resignation.
She's stopped asking questions about where we're going or what we're doing.
The transformation unsettles me if I have to be honest with myself.
The woman who had fire in her veins and defied me openly now follows orders without argument.
She's being tamed and I hate that it's me who's doing it.
"Where are we going?" she asks as I park near the market entrance.
Igor and Ivan are already there, scouting ahead, and waiting for us.
I shut off the car and notice a cluster of holiday-clad shoppers passing.
It's going to be chaotic and messy but it has to be done.
"Information gathering." I check my watch.
"Stay close to me and don't wander off."
We exit the car dressed in layers, sock hats and mittens, scarves wrapped around our necks to help us blend in with the rest of the holiday crowd but we're anything but festive.
The market sprawls across several blocks, vendors selling everything from handmade ornaments to roasted chestnuts.
Families weave between stalls while children point at towering displays of Ded Moroz figures.
The air smells of cinnamon and pine, woodsmoke from braziers warming the crowd.
I see Igor and Ivan throughout the market, maintaining visual contact while appearing to browse.
I spot them at intervals—one examining matryoshka dolls, another buying hot tea from a cart.
Disguised as holiday shoppers, they're surveilling everything, but their four eyes combined aren't as keen as Nadya's.
I take her arm and guide her through the crowds.
She moves stiffly beside me, and though she's not as discreet in her observations as my men, she is infinitely more aware.
The festive environment isn't distracting her keen eyes at all.
They sweep the crowd and lock on something no one else has pointed out yet.
I don't even see it until she says something.
"There," she murmurs, nodding toward a man in a dark coat standing near a jewelry stall.
I follow her gaze and see him too—mid-thirties, nervous energy, clutching a leather satchel against his chest.
He checks his watch repeatedly and scans the crowd.
No doubt in my mind he's the courier my intelligence identified.
"Good eye," I tell her in a low tone.
My hand stays lodged in the small of her back as she grows rigid, and I guide her onward, as I send a quick text to Igor.
We maintain distance, moving through the stalls while keeping him in sight.
He buys nothing, speaks to no one, but his behavior shows that he knows someone could be watching.
Every few minutes he changes position, using vendor displays to break sight lines.
After twenty minutes, he makes his move, racing toward the market's eastern edge, away from the main crowds.
I decide my only option is to give chase and Nadya keeps up despite her shorter stride.
The courier turns into a narrow alley between two buildings.
Snow covers the ground in a thin layer, crunching under our footsteps as we follow.
The sounds of the market fade behind us, replaced by the drip of melting ice from fire escapes above.
I signal for Nadya to stay back, but she follows anyway.
Her breathing has changed, shorter and more controlled.
She knows what's coming now, even if she doesn't want to acknowledge it, and I like that she's not backing down from this.
It's not every day a man in my world finds a woman who can be his match.
He stops halfway down the alley and turns, finally noticing he's being followed.
His eyes widen when he sees me approaching, recognition flashing across his features.
Fear follows quickly, the kind that makes men do stupid things.
"Oh my God," he whispers to himself, then louder, "Oh my God!"
But there's nowhere to go.
The alley ends in a brick wall, and I'm blocking his path back to the street.
He clutches the satchel tighter and backs against the wall, breath coming in visible puffs.
"Please," he says in Russian, then switches to broken English.
"I have family."
They always mention family.
As if having people who love you provides protection from the choices you make.
I've heard it a million times so I'm not even slightly moved by it.
I pull the knife from my coat—eight inches of carbon steel with a grip wrapped in leather.
The blade sings against the sheath, and he shakes his head violently, pleading more broken words in Russian.
"The satchel," I say.
He shakes his head frantically.
"I can't. They'll kill me."
"I'll kill you faster."
Behind me, Nadya makes a small sound.
Not quite a gasp, but close.
I glance back to see her face pale, hands pressed against her mouth.
She's seen the aftermath of violence but never witnessed the moment of death itself.
"Go, Ptichka," I tell her, but the courier tries to run then, scrambling along the wall toward the dead end.
Desperation makes people stupid.
I catch him in three strides, my hand tangling in his coat collar.
He spins to face me, the satchel swinging wide, and I have to move now or risk losing him.
The knife goes between his ribs on the left side, angled upward toward his heart, a clean thrust that punctures the lung and severs major blood vessels.
He gasps once, a wet sound that bubbles with blood, then goes limp in my grip.
Crimson drips on the snow into a puddle as I withdraw the blade.
The courier's body crumples, dark liquid spreading beneath him and staining the white ground blackish-red.
Nadya's scream catches in her throat, trapped behind her hands.
She stumbles backward until her shoulders hit the alley wall, eyes wide and fixed on the expanding pool of blood.
The sound she makes is raw, animalistic—pure human horror at witnessing death created rather than discovered.
I ignore her shock and focus on business because people will notice soon enough and I can't waste time.
The satchel contains what I expected—bundled cash in various denominations, coded documents detailing financial transfers, and a list of names I recognize as Brotherhood associates.
Valuable intelligence that will help me trace them back to locations where I can finish this.
The cash alone represents weeks of their operations.
Enough to fund safe houses, weapons purchases, bribes to corrupt officials.
Taking it will force them to adjust their timeline, maybe make mistakes in their desperation to replace the funding.
"Victory," I tell Nadya without looking up from the papers.
"This is everything we need." I wait for a response but get one.
When I look up and see her, I reach for her.
But she doesn't move, frozen against the wall with her hands still covering her mouth.
The color has drained from her face entirely.
Her pupils are dilated, breathing rapid and shallow.
Shock has set in completely, rendering her useless for the time being.
I think a lot of people feel this way when they first see someone take a life.
I pocket the most important documents and cash, leaving the satchel beside the body, but I steal his wallet, watch, and keys too.
The scene needs to look like a robbery gone wrong, not a targeted assassination.
Random street crime that the police will investigate with minimal enthusiasm.
But Nadya can't function.
She stands frozen while precious time ticks away, her breath coming in shallow pants that suggest panic.
Even when I touch her face, she doesn’t move or stop staring at that man.
I glance back at him and think for a moment about the life I've just taken.
A family, kids, probably siblings and parents.
But he knew what he was doing when he signed up to work for such evil men.
He knew the risks.
Nadya didn't.
She shouldn’t have been here.
Bringing her was a mistake.
I should've anticipated her reaction and left her in the car.
Now she's contaminated the scene with her presence and her terror, creating complications I don't need.
"Get in the car," I tell her.
She runs without argument, her footsteps echoing off the alley walls.
I follow more slowly, wiping the knife clean on the dead man's coat before sheathing it.
Our footprints tell the tale of two attackers, one of them female.
Another mistake.
Professionals would've made sure not to leave any evidence, but the best I can do is drag my foot across her foot prints so no one can tell there were two of us or that one of us was female.
And then I get the hell out of there.
Every additional minute in that alley increases the risk of discovery.
Someone could emerge from the buildings above, or a vendor might step out for a smoke break.
We climb into the car and I start the engine and pull into traffic.
Nadya sits silent in the passenger seat.
Her face has turned gray, and she stares straight ahead without blinking, leaving me to text and drive to inform my men that it's done.
I'll still have a mess to clean up when we get back to my place but the hard part of that is over.
The market continues its festive chaos while police remain unaware of the body cooling in a side alley.
If we're lucky, we might have hours before someone discovers the courier, maybe more if the weather keeps casual foot traffic away from that particular street.
At my building, Nadya gets out of the car without speaking.
Her movements remain mechanical, disconnected from conscious thought.
She follows me to the elevator, stands beside me as we ride up, enters my apartment when I unlock the door.
Then she rushes to my bathroom and vomits.
The sound carries through the thin walls—retching followed by shuddering gasps.
I've heard that reaction before from new recruits who couldn't handle their first kill.
Most wash out within weeks.
The ones who stay learn to compartmentalize, to separate necessary violence from personal emotion.
But she's not a recruit and she shouldn't have seen that.
I should've protected her and I failed her.
I allowed myself to think of her as an equal when she is anything but.
It makes my heart clench to think of the trauma I've put her through.
I should have seen it coming.
I pour myself vodka and examine the documents from the satchel.
Banking information, transfer schedules, coded references to Brotherhood safe houses.
Exactly the intelligence I needed to plan my next moves against their organization.
The toilet flushes.
Water runs in the sink.
Nadya emerges from the bathroom with her face washed but still pale, her hair pulled back from her forehead.
"I've never seen anyone die before," she says quietly.
"You've seen plenty of bodies."
"Dead bodies. Not dying." She sits heavily on my couch.
"There's a difference."
I study her face, noting the tremor in her hands and the way she avoids looking directly at me.
She calmly analyzes blood spatter patterns and reconstructs crime scenes but now she's been undone by witnessing actual violence.
Another reminder that civilians never truly adapt to this world, no matter how long they're exposed to its aftermath.
"It gets easier," I tell her.
"I don't want it to get easier."
But it will, whether she wants it or not.
Repeated exposure dulls emotional responses, builds tolerance for horror.
She'll watch more people die if she stays in this life.
The only question is whether she'll break first or adapt.
My phone rings.
Unknown number, but the area code matches Brotherhood territory.
I let it go to voicemail, then play the message on speaker.
"We know who you are," a voice says in accented Russian.
"We know who was with you. Tell your little bird to fly home while she still can."
The message ends.
Nadya stares at me with fresh terror in her eyes.
"They saw me," she whispers.
"They saw someone. Doesn't mean they know who."
But even as I say it, I know it's a lie.
The Brotherhood has extensive surveillance networks, cameras and informants throughout their territory.
A woman matching Nadya's description, seen with me near a crime scene, would be easy enough to identify with the right resources.
I've exposed her.
Brought her into the open where enemies could mark her as a target.
The mistake in that alley compounds into something larger, more dangerous.
"What do we do?" she asks.
I finish my vodka and set the glass aside.
The documents spread across my coffee table contain information worth killing for, intelligence that could help me destroy the Brotherhood before they destroy me.
But the woman sitting on my couch has become a liability I can't afford.
"We adapt," I tell her.
But I'm no longer certain either of us will survive long enough for adaptation to matter.