43. Chapter 34
Z asha
The clock strikes midnight, and I slide a fresh magazine into my Glock.
The click sounding sharp and final. It echoes through the surveillance apartment like a starting pistol.
The red glow from the wall clock bounces off the matte black of my vest. I’m already geared up—boots tight, comms wire clipped to my collar, knives hugging my sides like steel teeth waiting to sink in.
My pulse is steady, not because I’m calm, but because I’m filled with rage. It’s not the kind of rage that explodes. Rather, it’s the kind that simmers until it burns a hole through your ribs. Tonight, it has a target.
Across the room, Lev adjusts his comms. His usual sarcasm is absent, and he looks ready to tear down the whole city. There’s a storm in his jawline and a twitch in how he tests his mic. Good, he’s ready.
Viktor stands at the center, his low voice curling through the room like smoke. He briefs the strike team—Anton, Roman, Dmitri, Felix, and Yuri. All Bratva men who have been trained to kill with precision.
I stand beside the surveillance monitor, my fingers tapping on the screen, with every blind spot already marked with an X. I’ve studied this layout so many times that it’s etched into my memory.
I tap at a point on the screen. “We enter through here,” I say, voice low, pointing at a position between two generators. “There’s a dead angle here, Roman already looped the feed.”
“Zoom in,” Viktor says, and I do.
Lev nods. “Two teams?”
“Yeah.” I don’t look away from the screen. “Anton takes the rear. Locks down the courtyard. Nobody escapes. Not staff. Not guards. Not even the goddamn cook. If anyone raises a weapon, they go down.”
Anton doesn’t flinch. Just gives a grim nod, his eyes sharp.
I look to Lev. “The second we find the boy, we pull him out. I’ll want him out of there.”
Lev meets my gaze. “I’ve got the kid.”
I turn to Viktor. “Would you hold rear? Cover the exit?”
He pulls back the slide on his pistol and chambers a round. “You bring your wife and kid home. I’ll clean up behind you.”
The shift in the room is instant, like the air knows what’s coming. I rise, rolling my shoulders, every inch of me wound tight. The air tastes like copper and storm. I haven’t slept in days. But it doesn’t matter, because it ends tonight.
12:30 AM.
“This is it,” I tell them. “No more waiting. We go in. We bring them back.”
I screw the suppressor onto my Glock. The final twist clicks like a tomb sealing shut. “Cristóbal dies tonight,” I say, voice barely above a growl. “And I’m taking his fucking head.”
No one argues. So, I walk to the door, Glock tight in my hand.
“Let’s go.”
The night air bites hard against my skin. I crouch beside the fence, ivy brushing my sleeve, my eyes fixed on the overhead cam as it pans slowly.
I raise two fingers to signal go, and Dmitri breaks off, disappears into the hedge. I hear the soft tik-tik as he strips the wires. Seconds later, there is a soft whine, and the power dies. Leaving the compound in the darkness.
Beautiful.
Then the backup kicks in. A low grumble. Just enough power to bring the lights back to a dim glow. The cameras stutter, rebooting with a delay.
Perfect.
I signal again, and we move. We slide along the outer wall. Damp stone underfoot. Shadows overhead. We've done this a hundred times, but tonight isn’t just a mission. It’s war. War to bring my family home.
A guard steps out to figure out what happened to the power, and Roman is on him before he can blink. He lowers the body like he’s putting a child to bed.
My chest feels tight. Not from nerves, but because I’m coiled. I scan ahead and spot two more guards on the patio, trying to call out to the guy whom Roman just took care of.
I raise my weapon and aim. One of them drops without a sound, thanks to my silencer. His eyes remain wide open as he hits the ground.
The second turns, but it’s too late. Viktor’s already on him. Knife up the throat. We drag them behind a column, ensuring silence and leaving no traces.
As we move deeper into the house, the hallway stretches long and quiet, with closed doors on either side. I count the doors. Three on the left. Two on the right.
We move down, quietly testing the doors to ensure that no surprises jump out from behind them. When we reach the last door, we find it locked, but it’s not the lock that petrifies me. It’s the sound. A faint, soft muffled whimper, like a wounded animal trying not to be discovered.
I freeze, every instinct snapping taut. I raise my hand in a silent signal, and Lev immediately lifts his weapon, stepping into position to cover me. I press my ear to the wood.
Another faint cry.
My chest squeezes, hard. I’m moving before I can even think. Tools are in my hand, the lock already turning under practiced fingers. I’ve broken into more fortified doors than this in my sleep. The mechanism gives way with a soft click, and I ease it open on silent hinges.
The room is dim—moonlight slicing through sheer curtains like a blade. And there, in the middle of the space, curled in a bed too big for him, is a little boy.
My breath catches in my throat.
Maksim.
Tear tracks glisten on flushed cheeks. His tiny chest jerks with the last shiver of a sob—but the second his eyes meet mine, the world stills.
It’s like being hit by something primal. A thread snaps taut inside me, recognition flaring bright and unrelenting. I don’t just see a child. I see mine, my blood, my boy.
He stops crying.
I close the distance in two strides and drop to my knees beside the bed, scooping him into my arms. He’s trembling, stiff at first—then he just melts against me. Tiny arms lock around my neck like he never wants to let go.
His voice is scratchy, hesitant, but full of something that guts me.
“I want my Mama,” he whispers, in a voice that cracks like glass.
“You’re safe now, malen'kiy volk.” I say, holding him tighter. “And I’m going to get your mama now.”
Just then, the door swings wide open behind me. I spin, twisting my body to shield Maksim just as a guard bursts in with weapon drawn.
I don’t flinch because Lev moves like a bullet, and with one clean shot, his muzzle flash flares like lightning, and the bastard hits the floor. I hold Maksim tighter, feeling his little heart pounding against mine.
Viktor steps into the room a second later, calm and lethal as always. He glances at the body on the floor, then at me, and the boy clinging to my chest like I’m the only thing holding his world together.
Something soft flickers across Viktor’s face, and he gives me a quick nod as if to say phase one is done.
I rise, adjusting Maksim in my arms. “He’s alright,” I say softly, even though my voice feels scraped raw.
Maksim nestles in closer, his fingers tangling in the fabric of my shirt. I shift him, brushing the damp curls off his forehead. He gazes up at me, tired but calm now.
I look at Lev. “Take him.”
Lev reaches out, and for a second, I hesitate to let my son go. I kissing him on the forehead, and reluctantly pass him over.
The boy wraps his arms around Lev’s neck like he’s known him forever.
Lev blinks—but then his hands move automatically, cradling Maksim with surprising care.
He tucks the kid close like he’s done this a hundred times before, and adjusts his stance.
His gun steady in one hand, the other supporting the boy.
“Tell Anton to get him out,” I say. “Ask him to take one of the men as cover, and if anything comes between them and that gate, they should kill it.”
Lev nods, already moving.
As I watch them leave, my mind focuses on the next phase of the operation, and that is getting my wife out of here.
We push deeper into the building, Viktor on my left and Roman covering our flank. As we turn at the end of a hallway, four of Cristóbal’s men confront us. I lunge forward as another one rushes at us. He’s fast, and cocky, but not faster than I am.
I catch him mid-swing and drive my knife into his gut. He gurgles, and I slam his body into the wall before letting him drop.
“Lights,” Viktor mutters, before aiming at the pendant lighting ahead of us. Glass shatters as he shoots out the overhead lights. Darkness swallows us immediately, and I hear Roman let out a sigh of relief, because we operate and move better in the shadows.
The red glow of the emergency lights is faint. Just enough for us, but not sufficient for them.
We make quick work of the guards and press forward, boots slipping slightly in the mess pooling beneath us. My chest is heaving, not from exhaustion, but from urgency.
Mara’s close. I can feel it in my bones, and I’m not stopping. Not until I have my wife safely in my arms.