Chapter 29 Xander
XANDER
The safehouse is our meeting place, and it reeks of cigarette smoke and body odor of half a dozen men who've been up with me preparing to fight Arkady.
Igor stands by the table, arms crossed over his tactical vest as he goes over intelligence we've been gathering.
We're running scans, cross checking everything we know against a database in Markov's systems despite being told he wouldn't help, and finally we're getting somewhere.
"We have a location," Igor says, sliding a photograph across the table.
"Bakery in the Basmanny district. Sokolov's been using it as a safe hiding spot since we destroyed his warehouse operations, but it's definitely owned by the syndicate."
I study the image of a three-story building.
For all intents and purposes it appears to be a normal bakery with a store front and ovens in the back, but the second and third stories look to be used for apartment buildings, which isn't uncommon in Central Moscow.
If he's wise there are no tenants in those apartments, but wise isn't something I would label Arkady Sokolov.
"How solid is the intelligence?"
"Our source saw her being moved inside last night and confirmed Arkady himself is there, along with at least six soldiers."
At least six.
Meaning more could be hiding in rooms our informant couldn't access.
The Sokolovs know I'm coming for her, have prepared their defenses accordingly.
They lie in wait for me, and I won't be baited into their death trap.
"The Pakhan ordered us to stand down, Xander," Ivan says without turning from the window.
"Said she's not worth the risk."
Leonid's words still burn in my memory, the way he openly disregarded Nadya as an object to be recycled or replaced.
But the old man doesn't understand that Nadya became more than an asset weeks ago.
She's the only person who looks at me and sees beyond the killer.
Without her, I'm just a monster counting down days until violence consumes what's left of my humanity.
"We're going anyway," I say, standing and collecting my weapons.
"Anyone who wants to stay behind can do so without consequence."
Nobody moves toward the door.
These men have fought beside me for years.
They trust my judgment even when it contradicts direct orders.
Their loyalty will either save us all or destroy us together.
"It's a trap."
Ivan states the obvious.
"Of course it's a trap."
I light a cigarette, letting smoke fill my lungs.
"They want me in the open where they can put a bullet in my head."
"So, what's our play, then? We're not sending you in to your own execution."
Igor crosses his arms over his chest that's puffed out pridefully.
"We send someone they'll believe is me."
I turn to the younger man standing in the doorway.
"Stepan, you're my height, my build. Put on my coat, drive my car to the meeting point. Make sure they see you coming."
Stepan nods, understanding his role as bait in a larger trap.
"And when they realize I'm not you?"
"You run. Lead them on a chase through streets where we'll have eyes on every turn."
I stub out the cigarette.
"The Sokolovs will think they're hunting me. Instead, they'll lead us straight to wherever they're keeping Nadya."
"The Pakhan ordered us to stand down," Ivan reminds me in a careful tone.
He doesn't want to upset me, but he also understands the risk we're taking.
"Said she's not worth the risk."
Leonid may be the boss, but at this point, he can kiss my ass.
If I have to go in alone.
I will, but these men have made their stance.
They have my back even if it defies his orders, so we have to be successful.
"We're going anyway," I say, standing and collecting my weapons.
"Anyone who wants to stay behind can do so without consequence."
Nobody moves toward the door.
These men have fought beside me for years.
They trust my judgment even when it contradicts direct orders.
Their loyalty will either save us all or destroy us together.
We load into three vehicles.
Stepan takes my personal car, wearing my black coat and driving toward the coordinates the Sokolovs provided.
Igor and I follow in the second vehicle, staying far enough back to avoid detection.
Ivan takes the third car with two more men, circling around to cover alternate routes.
The streets are mostly dark at this hour.
Stepan's taillights disappear around a corner, heading toward the meeting point where armed men wait to kill whoever emerges from the vehicle.
He's a brave soul putting his life out there in exchange for mine and I'm not going to let him regret it.
His one task is to draw them out so they'll give chase.
He just has to stay alive and to that.
"He's in position," Igor says, watching the tracker on his phone that shows Stepan's location.
We park three blocks away, engines idling as we wait for the Sokolovs to make their move.
Minutes crawl past while we listen on our coms units to hear what's happening.
Stepan knows what he's doing, and he obeys orders well, but nothing about this sits right.
If he dies tonight, Leonid will have my head for directly disobeying his orders.
"Movement," Igor reports.
"Two vehicles leaving the factory. They're following Stepan."
The trap has sprung in reverse.
The Sokolovs believe they're pursuing me through Moscow's streets, unaware that we're tracking them from multiple positions.
Stepan leads them on a winding chase through industrial zones and residential districts, never quite letting them catch up but maintaining the illusion of panicked flight.
"He's good," Igor observes as Stepan executes a tight turn that forces the pursuing vehicles to slow.
"Drawing them away from us…"
"Good. Now we move," I tell him, easing the car forward.
We park less than a block away from the bakery's entrance before I give the rest of my men the signal.
"Everyone converges on my position. We don't have long."
With half the Sokolov crew chasing Stepan he has his work cut out for him, but it makes our job easier.
Within minutes the team is assembled in front and back of the bakery ready for my signal.
Without knowing how many men were in here to begin with, we don't know fully what we're up against.
And we don't know how many men gave chase after Stepan but there's no doubt in my mind once they've lost him or they figure out it's not me, they'll be coming back with a vengeance.
"Now we go in and take her back," I tell them, chambering a round in my Makarov as I stare up at the dark street.
My men fall in behind me and we make a silent approach.
If this place has security cameras I don't see evidence of them.
The whole store front is dark.
A Sokolov guard stands in the alley beside the building, cigarette glowing in the darkness.
That tiny flicker of light is the only indication of his size or position but I drop him with two suppressed shots before he can shout a warning, his body crumpling against a brick wall.
"Breach positions," I order through my com unit.
Igor moves to the main entrance with the battering ram.
And I know Ivan's team is covering the rear exit.
The rest of us wait, lined along the front of the store in crouching positions for the count.
"Three. two. one…" Igor's arms heft the long heavy ram and swing, the arc of steel and muscle slamming into the doorframe with a crack that rattles through the building.
Wood splinters.
Hinges scream.
He pulls back, momentum dragging the weight low, then swings again—harder, tighter—until the rhythm becomes mechanical.
Impact.
Recoil.
Reset.
Each blow turns the door into less of a barrier and more of an obstacle begging to collapse.
When the door is finally open, darkness greets us, thick with the smell of flour and yeasty pastries.
I hear movement somewhere in the back and for good reason. Smashing a door down is loud.
There was no way we were ever getting into this place without them knowing.
Muzzle flashes strobe from the stairwell.
Bullets spark off industrial ovens and shatter display cases, raining glass across tile floors.
I return fire while advancing and lay cover fire for my men who file in behind me.
A Sokolov soldier appears from behind the counter, shotgun raised.
Igor's burst catches him under the chin, spinning him backward into shelving that topples and falls on him.
Flour bags split open, white powder billowing into the air.
"Second floor," Ivan reports through the radio.
"Three hostiles down."
We move deeper into the building knowing Ivan is handling the upstairs and we push through the kitchen toward the back of the shop where ovens, not yet turned on today, clutter the space creating a bottleneck.
We have to go single file, and I'm in the lead.
Footsteps thunder overhead, followed by shouting in Russian.
They're preparing for our final assault, gathering forces for a last stand and fighting Ivan and the few men who move with him.
"Third floor entrance blocked," Ivan says.
"Heavy barricade."
My focus is on the storage rooms near the back that have remained oddly quiet.
I know Sokolov is in there hiding from me, waiting for me to come find him so he can jump out and shoot me down.
A Sokolov soldier stumbles from a doorway to my left, face contorted in rage.
Igor puts him down before he can raise his weapon.
Another tries to flee toward the staircase, but my shots catch him in the back.
"Clear left," Igor calls.
That leaves the main room on my right, near the back.
I approach with my rifle raised and my heart pounding so hard against my ribs it feels like it might burst through at any second.
Never in my life have I felt adrenaline like this.
Of course situations call for my body to be prepared, but knowing Nadya is there, waiting for me and probably terrified, maybe already dead, has heightened things beyond my ability to cope.
Igor places shaped charges at the hinges and shouts, "Fire in the hole!"
The blast breaks the door from its hinges and I stand with my gun up and ready as Igor tugs it loose.
It falls into the hallway and men behind him lift it out of the way, and when we enter the small room, Arkady stands beside a metal chair where Nadya sits bound and gagged, her face pale beneath bruises.
The old man holds a pistol to her head, and he's not fucking around.
"One step closer and she dies," he says calmly.
I keep my rifle trained on his chest as we file into the room.
Igor steps in behind me, then another of my men behind him.
He's outnumbered, but that doesn't mean he won't take Nadya out with him.
That's his only play now and he knows it, one last cloying reach to hurt me as he goes to his grave.
"The great Xander Morin," Arkady sneers.
"Brought to his knees by a woman who cleans floors."
Nadya's eyes meet mine and I see terror in them.
My heart squeezes in my chest at the site of the bruises on her face.
They've kept her alive but treated her with cruelty.
Dried blood crusts her temple.
Her wrists are raw from restraints.
"Let her go and I'll make it quick," I offer.
"I'm not negotiating with you, " he says, and his finger tightens on the trigger.
"You destroyed my organization, killed my son, burned everything I built. Now you lose what you love most."
I'd like to think this is where I slit his throat, the moment I take him out before he can hurt her, but the boom of gunfire doesn't come from my rifle.
The barrel of Igor's rifle smokes as Arkady's weapon rises ever so slightly and blood blossoms across his neck and chest.
His gun goes off in a secondary blast that draws fire from my weapon and that of one of my men behind me.
Three more bullets hit his chest as the one from his gun lodges in the wall on the far side of the room and Nadya topples to the ground trembling and screaming.
I lower my weapon and cross to her, cutting the zip ties that bind her wrists.
She curls forward into my arms, body shaking with sobs that tear from her throat in ragged gasps.
"I've got you," I whisper against her hair.
"You're safe now."
Pulling her against my chest, I hold her tightly, feeling every tremor in her muscles.
Never again will I let her out of my sight.
"I thought—" Her voice breaks.
"I thought you wouldn't come."
"I'll always come for you, Ptichka. Always."
She clings to me with desperation, face buried against my chest while tears soak through my tactical vest.
"Is it over?" she asks, her voice muffled.
I survey the carnage.
Arkady himself lies at our feet, his empire reduced to a corpse in a bakery.
His soldiers are scattered across three floors, their blood staining surfaces that will require cleaning, and when those cars return from the chase, there will be a few more men to fall, but for now it's done.
"Every last one," I confirm.
"The Brotherhood is finished."
Ivan appears in the doorway.
"Upper levels are secured, Boss. No survivors."
The war that has consumed two months of my life has ended in a commercial bakery on a quiet Moscow street.
The Sokolov Brotherhood, once powerful enough to threaten our organization, now exists only in memory and obituaries.
"We need to move, Boss," Igor says.
"Police will respond within minutes."
He's not wrong.
I'll deal with the final few stragglers later, and the fallout from Markov will be painful, but I've done it.
I lift Nadya in my arms, carrying her toward the door.
She weighs almost nothing, her body depleted by days of captivity, but she's alive, breathing against my neck as we move through the building we've transformed into a tomb.
"I love you," I tell her, the words foreign on my tongue but necessary.
"I should have said it sooner. Should've told you every day."
"I know," she whispers.
"I've always known."
We emerge into the street where our vehicles wait.
Sirens wail in the distance, approaching through streets that will soon flood with police.
The woman in my arms represents everything I never allowed myself to want—vulnerability, connection, the possibility of being more than a monster who kills for money.
She's seen the worst of what I am and somehow loves me anyway.
The Pakhan will demand answers I can't give, give punishment for disobedience I can't avoid.
Operating without authorization, risking valuable men for personal reasons—these are offenses that typically end with bullets and shallow graves.
But holding Nadya while she cries against my chest makes the consequences irrelevant.
Some things are worth dying for.
She's one of them.