Chapter 27 #2
The inside of the factory was much larger than it appeared from the outside.
The first floor was supported by several massive concrete pillars.
Most of the overhead fluorescent lights were broken; only one was still struggling to stay on, flickering intermittently and cutting the space into patches of uneven light and shadow.
The air carried the mixed smell of dust and rust. The concrete floor was scattered with broken glass and cigarette butts, and several oil drums, so corroded that their original colors were impossible to tell, were piled in the corner.
Two men stood at the foot of the stairs. They didn't look particularly tense, but both of their hands rested near their belts, their eyes fixed on me from the shadows. When I walked toward them, I didn't look at them. I simply headed straight for the stairs.
"He's waiting for you upstairs," one of them said. His voice was rough, smoke-scarred and raspy.
I didn't answer. Just climbed the metal steps, each footfall echoing loud in the empty space.
When I reached the second floor, a long hallway stretched ahead.
Lights hung at intervals overhead—some on, some dead—cutting the corridor into alternating segments of brightness and dark.
At the far end, a door stood ajar, light bleeding through the crack, pooling on the floor in an irregular stripe.
I walked over and pushed it open.
The room was small. Smaller than I'd expected. Concrete floor, a broken metal chair in the corner with one leg missing, propped up with cardboard. But the chair was empty. Anna wasn't there.
Sergei sat at the far end of the room. He leaned against the wall beneath the window, body tilted slightly forward, hands clasped over his knees, chin resting on his fingertips.
His face was thinner than the last time I'd seen him—cheekbones like they'd been carved with a blade, eye sockets sunken deep, lips cracked.
But his mouth held a smile—thin as a film of oil on water.
"Ivan," he said, drawing out the last syllable. "You're faster than I expected."
My gaze moved from the empty chair to his face. "Where is she?"
Sergei spread his hands, like displaying an answer he'd prepared long ago. "Another room. Don't worry, someone's watching her. Your dear father-in-law's keeping her company himself. Father-daughter reunion. Touching, isn't it?"
I stood in the doorway. He sat beneath the window.
About seven or eight steps between us. I scanned the room—the north wall window was indeed barred, gaps between the rods maybe two fingers wide.
Beyond it, gray-white daylight. Rain still falling, blown sideways by the wind, striking the bars and spattering.
"Tell me what you want."
Sergei laughed. A short sound, like something ground from deep in his throat.
"What do I want? You know damn well. How much territory did you take from me?
How many of my people did you wipe out? And now you're asking me what I want.
" He stood slowly, the chair scraping back half a step across the concrete.
"I want you on your knees. I want you to watch your people fall one by one. Then you die."
I watched him rise. His movements weren't quick—sluggish, even. Like worn-out machinery. When he stood, he was shorter than me, shoulders slumped, back slightly hunched. But his hand slipped inside his jacket, fingers settling on something.
"You came alone?" he asked.
"Alone."
"You're lying." He tilted his head, the smile deepening. "I heard the noise outside. Your people are all around, aren't they? You think I don't know?"
I looked at him. "You know."
"But you came in anyway." The gun finally emerged fully from his jacket, barrel pointing at my chest. "You knew my people are everywhere outside, and you still walked in. Ivan, when did you get this stupid? For a woman?"
"When did you get this scared?" I said.
His smile froze.
Just for a second. So brief he almost pulled it back in time. But I saw it. I saw what floated beneath that smug satisfaction in his eyes—a thin, thin layer of something else. He was afraid. He'd just buried it so deep for so long, he'd convinced himself it wasn't there anymore.
"Me, scared?" He laughed, but there was something different in it now. Like an animal with its tail caught, desperately holding its posture. "Your woman's in my hands. Who should be scared?"
"You."
I reached toward the small of my back. Slowly. He could see it.
Sergei's gun barrel lifted half an inch.
His finger tightened on the trigger. Subtle, but I saw it.
He thought he had time to shoot.
I watched his grip, the angle of his shoulder tensing, where his eyes focused—and he was doing the same, tracking my movements.
The bullet came through the window. No sound.
Sergei's shoulder jerked backward violently, his whole body slamming against the wall like he'd been hit by something solid.
He slid down the wall, head dropping, the gun slipping from his hand, hitting the floor and bouncing twice.
He didn't die immediately.
He slumped against the base of the wall, chin sagging, a dark red circle spreading from the bullet hole in his chest.
His lips moved. A wet rasp came from his throat, like words stuck halfway and dissolved before they could form.
I stood there for a few seconds. Then I walked over, bent down, picked up the gun he'd dropped, and holstered my own.
Outside the window, rain kept falling. Droplets hit the sill, blown inside by the wind, wetting a small patch of concrete. The only sounds left in the room were the low hum from a vent and the faint trickle of water sliding down the bars.
I turned and walked out.
The hallway lights were still on, their uneven glow laying an irregular path at my feet. I pulled out my radio as I walked, pressed the button.
"Second floor clear. Take them alive."
Dmitri's voice crackled back. "Copy."
I clipped the radio to my belt, quickened my pace toward the door at the end of the hall. Sergei said Anna was in another room. Said Gary was watching her. That door was at the far end, also half-open, spilling the same yellow light.
I walked over and pushed it open.