Chapter 20 - Vasily
The smoke was visible from twenty miles out.
I stood at the helicopter's open door, gripping the frame hard enough to turn my knuckles white, and watched the black column rise against the evening sky. The pilot was pushing the aircraft as fast as it could go, but it wasn't fast enough. Nothing would be fast enough.
The island materialized from the haze—the familiar shape of the cliffs, the green hills, the sprawling estate that had been my sanctuary. Except now flames licked from shattered windows, and the gardens were littered with bodies, and everything I'd built to protect her had failed.
"Land on the south lawn," I ordered. "Away from the fires."
The helicopter touched down, and I was out before the skids had fully settled. The air smelled of smoke and gunpowder and blood—the familiar scent of war, transplanted to the one place I'd believed was safe.
I ran toward the house, my gun drawn, scanning for threats. Bodies everywhere—my men in their dark suits, Pankratov's soldiers in tactical gear. The battle had been brutal, close-quarters, room to room. Whatever else had happened, my people had fought hard.
But they'd lost.
"Gabrielle!" Her name tore from my throat, raw and desperate. "GAbrIELLE!"
No answer. Just the crackle of flames and the distant crash of waves.
I pushed through the shattered front door, stepping over a dead Armenian with half his skull missing. The foyer was destroyed—the chandelier crashed to the floor, the marble cracked, paintings torn from walls. I moved through the wreckage, checking every room, every corner, every shadow.
Empty. All of it empty.
"Boss!"
The voice came from the east wing. I followed it, my heart hammering, and found Kirill slumped against a wall near the stairs to the safe room.
He looked like death. Blood soaked his shirt from wounds I couldn't count. His face was pale, his breathing shallow. But his eyes were open, and when he saw me, something like relief flickered in them.
"Kirill." I dropped to my knees beside him, pressing my hands against the worst of the bleeding. "Where is she?"
"They took her." The words came out wet, bubbling. Punctured lung, maybe. "Boat. Southeast. Maybe... maybe an hour ago."
"How many?"
"Eight. Ten." He coughed, and blood flecked his lips. "I tried, boss. We all tried. There were too many. They knew everything—patrol routes, blind spots, the safe room. They knew everything."
Lucas. Even dead, his betrayal was still destroying me.
"The woman—Yelena—she hid her. Bought time." Kirill's eyes were losing focus. "Mrs. Chernov fought. Didn't go easy. Made them work for it."
Of course she did. Of course my fierce, stubborn wife had fought.
"Stay alive," I told him. "Help is coming. You stay alive, you hear me?"
He didn't respond. His eyes had closed, his breathing gone shallow. I pressed my fingers to his throat—pulse still there, weak but present. He needed a hospital. Needed surgery, blood, things I couldn't give him.
I left him and kept searching.
***
I found Yelena in the storage room.
She was crumpled on the floor amid scattered linens, her face swollen, her lip split, blood matting her gray hair. When she heard my footsteps, she flinched—then saw who it was and let out a sob.
"Mr. Chernov. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—"
"Where did they take her?" I knelt beside her, gentler than I'd been with Kirill. She was a civilian, innocent, had stayed loyal when she could have run. "Yelena, I need to know everything."
"I hid her." Tears streaked through the blood on her face.
"The hidden panel, like you showed me. But they were searching everywhere.
I tried to lead them away, make them think she'd gone the other direction.
They caught me. Beat me." Her voice cracked.
"I didn't tell them where she was. I swear I didn't. But they found her anyway.
They found her, and they took her, and I couldn't stop them—"
"You did everything you could." I gripped her shoulder, forcing her to meet my eyes. "You kept her alive long enough to be taken. If they'd found her earlier, she might be dead. You gave me a chance to get her back."
"They said—the one with the scar—he said Pankratov wanted to meet her." Yelena shuddered. "They put her on a boat. I saw from the window before I... before I passed out. Southeast. Fast boat, military style."
Southeast. The same direction Kirill had said.
I was already calculating distances, possibilities, destinations. Pankratov had properties scattered across the Aegean—safe houses, warehouses, bolt-holes for when things went wrong. But if he wanted to interrogate her, hold her, use her against me—he'd need somewhere secure. Somewhere isolated.
I called Semyon.
"Tell me you have something."
"Working on it." Keys clacked in the background. "Armenian movements in the Aegean over the past forty-eight hours—I've got boat rentals, helicopter charters, supply purchases. There's a pattern forming."
"Where?"
"Small island about sixty kilometers southeast of your position. Officially abandoned—old shipping facility from the Cold War era. But satellite imagery shows recent activity. Boats, vehicles, generator power."
Sixty kilometers. An hour by fast boat. If they'd taken her there—
"That's where they have her."
"Vasily, we don't have confirmation—"
"I don't need confirmation. I need men." I was already moving back through the house, toward the helicopter. "Everyone you can reach within two hours. Armed, equipped, ready to breach a fortified position. I don't care what it costs. I don't care who you have to call. Get them there."
"I've already started. Greek special forces owe us favors. Private contractors out of Athens. I can have thirty men ready to move within ninety minutes."
"Make it sixty."
"Vasily—"
"She's pregnant, Semyon." The words tore out of me, raw with fear. "She's carrying my child. If anything happens to her—if anything happens to either of them—"
I couldn't finish. Couldn't let myself imagine the possibilities.
"Sixty minutes," Semyon said quietly. "I'll make it happen."
***
The assault team assembled on a fishing boat two kilometers off the target island.
Thirty-two men in total—a mix of Chernov soldiers who'd arrived from Athens, Greek special forces operating off the books, and private military contractors who asked no questions as long as the money was good.
They were armed with automatic weapons, breaching charges, night-vision equipment.
A small army assembled in under an hour.
It still didn't feel like enough.
I stood at the bow, watching the island through binoculars. The old shipping facility hulked against the darkening sky—concrete and steel, brutalist architecture from another era. Lights glowed in some windows. Guards patrolled the perimeter. They knew we were coming, or at least suspected.
It didn't matter. I would tear through every one of them to reach her.
"Tactical assessment," said Marcos, the Greek special forces commander I'd worked with before.
"Two entry points—main door and service entrance on the east side.
Perimeter guards—I count eight, maybe ten.
Interior unknown. They'll have her in the most defensible position, probably the central structure. "
"I go in first."
"Mr. Chernov, with respect—"
"I go in first." I turned to face him, and whatever he saw in my eyes made him step back. "Your men cover the perimeter, secure the exits. No one leaves that island alive except her. Anyone who gets in my way dies."
Marcos exchanged a glance with his lieutenant, then nodded. "Understood."
We approached from the east, using the rocky coastline for cover.
The guards never saw us coming—or if they did, they didn't see us for long.
Silenced weapons dropped three of them before an alarm could be raised.
By the time the others realized what was happening, we were already inside the perimeter.
The first man I killed personally was guarding the service entrance.
He was young—mid-twenties, nervous, cigarette trembling in his fingers. He saw me emerge from the shadows and fumbled for his weapon. Too slow. I was on him before he could raise it, my knife sliding between his ribs, my hand clamping over his mouth to muffle his scream.
"Where is she?" I breathed against his ear. "The woman. Where?"
His eyes were wide with terror. He pointed toward the central building, toward a door marked with Armenian symbols.
I twisted the knife and let him fall.
The interior was a maze of corridors and empty rooms, concrete walls sweating moisture, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. I moved through it like a ghost, like a predator, every sense tuned to the sounds and smells of the men hunting for me as I hunted for them.
I killed four more before I reached the central hall.
The first, I shot through the throat when he stepped around a corner. The second, I caught from behind, snapping his neck with a brutal twist before he could cry out. The third and fourth were together, playing cards in what had once been a break room. They died before the cards hit the floor.
Each kill was mechanical. Efficient. I felt nothing—no satisfaction, no rage, no hesitation. They were obstacles between Gabrielle and me. Nothing more.
The gunfire started when I reached the main corridor.
Someone had finally raised the alarm. Bullets chewed through the walls around me, and I dove for cover, returning fire with controlled bursts. Two more men down. Three. The contractors were breaching from the other side now, the sound of their assault echoing through the facility.
I pushed forward through the chaos, stepping over bodies, ignoring the burn of a bullet that grazed my shoulder. Pain didn't matter. Nothing mattered except reaching her.
The corridor ended at a heavy steel door. Reinforced. Locked.
I placed a breaching charge and stepped back.
The explosion tore through the hinges, and I was through before the smoke cleared.