Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ivan
The light in the conference room was cold.
Fluorescent tubes hung overhead, bleaching the documents on the table white, stripping color from every face until only outlines remained.
I was listening to someone report on routing issues with the West Coast shipment, my finger resting on the edge of a file, fingertip pressing the folded corner of a page, gaze fixed on the last line of numbers. My phone buzzed once in my jacket pocket.
I didn't move. Kept listening.
It buzzed again. Then a third time.
I raised my hand, signaling the report to pause, and pulled out my phone. Dmitri's name flashed on the screen—three missed calls, all from him.
I stared at those three records for two seconds, swiped, and called back.
When he picked up, Dmitri didn't start with his usual "Boss." His first words cut straight through—
"Anna's been taken."
The conference room was quiet. So quiet I could hear the faint hum from the AC vents.
I pulled the phone from my ear, checked the screen, and confirmed the caller ID was correct. Then I pressed it back to my ear, my voice steadier than I expected. "Talk."
"The guys you left watching Anna—one didn't pull out. Smart kid. Saw her get dragged into a vehicle, tossed a tracker inside. Signal veered off the usual route twenty minutes ago. I pulled surveillance from three intersections nearby, caught the whole thing."
He took a breath, kept going. "Black van, no plates. Stopped for less than five seconds. She walked out of a convenience store; they grabbed her. There was a witness across the street, but didn't get the plate. Tracker's still live, signal's stable. She's at an industrial complex on the outskirts."
"I've got people moving that direction now. What's your call?"
I stood. The chair legs scraped across the floor, sharp and loud. Everyone in the room looked at me. I didn't look back. Just grabbed my suit jacket from the chair, slipped it on one-handed.
"Meeting's over."
Then I walked out.
The hallway was dimmer than the conference room. The fluorescent lights were spaced farther apart, and every few steps I passed through alternating patches of light and shadow.
The carpet swallowed most of my footsteps, leaving only the soft rustle of fabric. I switched the phone to my other ear, pushed through the fire door into the stairwell, and started down.
"Snipers first," I said. "High ground cleared and rifles up in thirty minutes. Seal the perimeter around the warehouse—front door, back door, ventilation shafts, everything. You find Gary yet?"
"Found him. Vanished from his last known address three days ago, but we pulled surveillance from a two-mile radius around where Anna was grabbed. Got one frame with a possible match. Gait and build line up with Gary. He's involved. Odds are he's working with Sergei's crew."
I stopped on the landing between floors.
Outside the window, gray-white daylight pressed down through low clouds, smudging the city skyline into a blur of shadows.
I looked at that light for about three seconds. Then kept moving.
"What's Sergei doing?"
"He's been quiet. Too quiet. Intel from multiple sources says he's been moving people around, but nobody knows what for. Now we know. He was waiting for this."
I pushed through the glass door into the first-floor lobby.
Wind rushed in, carrying the cool bite of morning and the smell of wet earth.
A car was already waiting at the bottom of the steps—Dmitri's people had brought it around.
I walked over, pulled open the driver's door, got in.
The engine's rumble filled the empty entrance.
"Twenty vehicles," I said. "I want nothing moving within five hundred yards of that warehouse. Anything coming through gets stopped at checkpoints. No explanations. You take the back door yourself. Seal that road. Don't let anyone slip out."
"Understood."
I hung up, set the phone on the center console.
The map on the navigation screen showed a red dot moving slowly, its trajectory smooth—no detours, no stops, like a vehicle heading exactly where it was supposed to go.
I stared at that red dot for a few seconds, then released the brake. The car slid out of the lane.
The rain began to fall. Fine droplets struck the windshield, only to be swept away by the wipers again and again before quickly covering the glass once more.
The buildings on both sides of the street gradually changed—from neat residential neighborhoods, to low-rise shops, and then to empty industrial lots.
Potholes and cracks began to appear on the road, while the structures around us turned into rusted steel frames and gray, weathered concrete walls.
At an intersection, I called home. Antonia answered, her voice carrying the clarity and steadiness of morning.
"Sir?"
"I won't be back for a couple of days," I said. "You're in charge of the kids. If Alex asks about his mother, tell him she's handling something. She'll be back soon."
Antonia paused for a beat. Then, "Yes, sir." She didn't ask questions. That's why she'd been with the Volkovs for thirty years.
I was about to hang up when I heard light footsteps on the other end, then Alex's voice, muffled through the receiver, still rough with sleep. "Is that Dad?"
Antonia hadn't stopped him in time. I could already hear the boy moving closer to the phone.
"Dad," he said. "Mom didn't come home last night."
My hand stilled on the steering wheel. The light ahead turned red. I eased onto the brake, the car stopping smoothly at the line, wipers sweeping back and forth.
"She's taking care of something," I said. "Stay with Antonia for a few days, okay?"
Silence on the other end for a few seconds. I could almost see him standing there, head down, fingers twisting the sleeve of his pajamas. Then he spoke, quieter than before. "Will she come back?"
"Yes." The light turned green. I didn't hit the gas right away. Just gripped the wheel, waiting for him to say what came next.
He sniffled. "Will you come back too?"
"I will," I said. "I promise."
More silence. Then I heard him say "Okay," so softly it was like setting something heavy down. He ran off, his footsteps pattering away. Antonia picked up the receiver again, said, "I'll take care of them, sir," and hung up.
I set the phone back on the console.
The car slid back into the lane, passed through the last intersection. The gray outline of the industrial district was rising into view ahead.
I parked the car three hundred meters from the warehouse, behind an abandoned loading dock. Cut the engine. Didn't get out right away. Just sat there, looking through the rain-streaked windshield at that gray-white three-story building.
The metal door was half-open, dim yellow light spilling through.
That door wasn't large, but big enough for someone to slip through sideways. Most of the paint had peeled off the warehouse's exterior, exposing rusted metal sheeting underneath. Some pieces had curled up and rattled faintly in the wind.
There was a window on the second floor, barred with iron rods. The gaps between them were maybe two fingers wide, letting through the same yellow glow.
Anna was behind that window.
I could feel her there. Not see her—feel her. Something more primal than sight.
I pushed the car door open. Rain hit my face, cold.
Dmitri was already there. His black SUV sat about twenty meters to my right, lights off, crouched like a shadow.
He saw me get out and stepped out himself, holding a tablet. Its cold glow lit his face.
"She's still inside," he said, swiping the screen to pull up the building's floor plan.
"Thermal imaging shows three people in the north room on the second floor.
One's in the corner, barely moving. That's Anna.
Two on the first floor, one at the back door, one mobile by the side entrance.
Sergei might be in another room on the second floor, or he hasn't arrived yet.
But we've spotted some of his old crew moving around the perimeter. "
"Snipers?"
"Set up on the third floor of that abandoned office building across the way. Full view of the north window on the second floor. Anything moves near that window, they can lock on in two seconds."
I nodded, took the tablet, and studied the floor plan.
The warehouse layout wasn't complicated—open interior space, second floor divided into rooms. The north room had a barred window, but the gaps between the bars were wide enough for a bullet to pass through cleanly.
Sergei probably thought that window was secure.
He probably didn't realize that what felt safest to him gave me the clearest line of sight.
"Front and back sealed?"
"Sealed. Side vents covered too. The second he steps through any door, someone's waiting."
I handed the tablet back to Dmitri, grabbed a bulletproof vest from the back seat, and pulled it on over my shirt.
Then I took my gun from the glove box, checked the magazine—full.
The metallic click of the slide pulling back and snapping forward was sharp in the quiet air.
When I finished, I looked up at the warehouse.
That metal door was still half-open, yellow light spilling out onto the ground in a narrow warm strip.
"Stick to the plan," I said. "Wait for my signal."
Dmitri nodded. Didn't say anything else.
He turned toward the SUV, spoke quietly into his radio.
Then from maybe a dozen directions around us came soft movement, almost covered by the rain.
I stood there, watching those scattered shadows slip between abandoned buildings, converging, closing in, settling into position, like an invisible net drawing tight.
I switched off my phone, pocketed it, and walked toward that metal door.