Chapter 20 Viktor
Viktor
EARLIER THAT MORNING…
The city's lights fade in the rearview mirror as I grip the steering wheel, the engine's low growl the only sound breaking the night's silence.
Ivan sits shotgun, relaxed but alert, his eyes flicking between the side mirror and the road ahead. Alexander's SUV leads us by a hundred yards, taillights steady red beacons in the dark.
We're heading to the meeting point outside the city—neutral ground, far enough from downtown to avoid prying eyes, close enough to the freeway or any number of back roads for quick exits if needed. The meet with the generals and street soldiers is set for dawn.
No room for delays, no tolerance for fuck-ups.
Alexander's moving like a damn turtle, though… crawling at the speed limit, signaling every lane change like a driving instructor's pet student.
I tap the horn lightly once, just a nudge.
No response.
Impatience builds in my chest, a familiar burn.
"Easy," Ivan says, voice calm as always. "We're in plenty of time. Last thing we need is a cop pulling us over for speeding. Draws attention. Bad idea."
I glance at him.
He's right, of course. Always the level head.
But the clock on the dash mocks me—plenty of time, yes, but time is a luxury in our world. One wrong move, and it's gone. I ease off the gas, matching Alexander's pace.
"Fine,” I grumble. “But if he's playing grandma, I'm passing him at the next straight."
Ivan chuckles. "Alexander's solid. He's watching. That's why he's ahead. That’s why he’s been your head of security for so long…"
I grunt agreement.
Alexander's been with me years—loyal, unflinching. If there's a tail or a setup, he'll spot it first. Still, the slow crawl grates. The highway thins out, buildings giving way to warehouses and industrial lots, which then make way for suburbs then rural nothing.
Stars prick the sky now, unfiltered by smog.
The quiet stretches. Ivan breaks it first. "The boy… Eddie,” Ivan says. “You two got a future when this shit's done?"
I keep my eyes on the road, but the question lands heavy.
Eddie—his face flashes in my mind.
"Hope so," I say finally. "He’s... different. Makes me feel something I thought was dead."
Ivan nods slowly. "I’ve seen it. The way he looks at you. But your life… blood, shadows, our mission today. You think he can handle it long-term?"
My grip tightens on the wheel.
"Part of me wonders,” I answer. “He’s innocent. A real artist. Littles like him need safety, not this." I pause, the words bitter. "But he’s tough. He survived the gallery, the bullshit, me. Still, if it's too much... I won't chain him.”
Ivan stares out the window. "He’s a Little, yeah. But an adult. His call. Don't decide for him.”
Wise words from a lone wolf. I let them sink in.
The road straightens, truly rural now… fields on one side, woods on the other, occasional farm lights dotting the dark.
No traffic. Peaceful, almost.
But deceptive.
I check the dash clock. "We're early,” I say. “Too early. Diner up ahead…coffee?"
Ivan pulls out his phone. "Pfft. One minute you’re pushing Alexander to go faster. And now you want a coffee. Hell, it’s a good idea. It’ll wake us up. I’ll message Alexander."
Ivan: Diner stop. 5 min ahead. Coffee.
Alexander: Copy.
The diner's neon sign flickers into view… 24/7, faded blue letters promising hot food and bottomless cups. There’s an empty lot except for a semi truck idling.
We approach the junction. A four-way stop, traffic lights hanging overhead. Alexander's SUV slows as the light flips yellow.
"Come on," I mutter. “Jeez.”
The light changes to red too fast—unnaturally quick.
Something's wrong.
My instinct screams to me.
I beep the horn—sharp, urgent—urging Alexander through.
He hesitates. Bad move.
An SUV barrels from the blind side—black, tinted windows, no lights. It slams into Alexander's driver side with a crunch of metal and shattering glass. His vehicle spins, tires screeching, crashes into the ditch.
"Ambush!" Ivan shouts, hand going for his gun. “Fucking ambush!”
I floor the accelerator but it’s too late.
Another SUV—from behind—rams us hard. The impact jars my teeth, deploys airbags with a bang. The world tilts. Metal screams. We spin, skid, and rock over upside down.
Everything is a fucking blur.
All I can hear is the sound of the engine, but it’s distant, the ringing in my ears making everything seem totally out of perspective.
I try to turn my head but my neck is stiff, almost nonresponsive as my body and brain feel utterly scrambled.
“Ivan…”
TEN YEARS EARLIER…
Keep running.
Don’t fucking stop.
I’m not going out like this…
Dusk bled across the forest like spilled ink. The trees were black silhouettes against a sky the color of bruised fruit, and the air was cold.
My boots slammed into the leaf litter, each step kicking up damp earth and the sharp scent of decay. My lungs burned. My left arm throbbed where a bullet had grazed it earlier—hot, sticky blood soaking through the sleeve of my jacket—but I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop.
Behind me the baying of police dogs grew louder, more frenzied. The sensed blood. My blood.
The dog handlers shouted commands in clipped, urgent bursts. Flashlight beams sliced through the branches, swinging wildly, searching.
Closer. Always closer.
I clutched the pistol in my right hand—Glock 19, half the magazine gone—and the duffel bag slung over my shoulder bounced against my hip with every stride. Inside: stacks of cash, still banded, still smelling faintly of ink and old paper.
The heist had been clean until the very end.
Two wingmen—good men, brothers in every way that mattered—cut down in the bank lobby by SWAT fire. One took three rounds to the chest, the other caught a shotgun blast that turned his face into something unrecognizable.
I’d dragged their bodies behind the teller counter long enough to grab the bags and vanish through the service exit.
But the cops were already there. Waiting.
No peaceful surrender now. Not after what they’d seen. Not after I’d fired back. They’d shoot on sight. I knew it the same way I knew the sun would rise tomorrow… if I lived that long.
The bank was a small branch in a quiet town.
IT was supposed to be a straightforward job.
But instinct told me from the jump that something was not quite right.
It was like the cops expected us to be there.
I don’t know how. Maybe a rat. Maybe even a tip off from a rival family. Whatever. It was done now.
All I needed to consider was how the hell I was going to lose the cops and get the money back to my pakhan.
The ground began to slope sharply downward. I could hear water now—rushing, angry, growing louder with every step.
A river.
Maybe salvation.
Maybe a grave.
I didn’t care which. I just needed distance between me and the rabid dogs and the cops with their trigger happy fingers.
The dogs were close enough that I could make out individual barks—deep, guttural, excited. A flashlight beam swept across the trees to my left, too close. A voice shouted: “There! Movement at eleven o’clock!”
I broke into a full sprint, ignoring the fire in my lungs, the wet slap of blood against my ribs. Branches clawed at my face, my arms. I burst through the last line of trees and skidded to a halt.
The cliff edge dropped away in front of me… twenty, maybe thirty feet straight down to black water churning white against jagged rocks. No gentle slope. No path. Just a sheer drop.
Behind me the dogs exploded through the underbrush. Flashlight beams converged. A rifle cracked—once, twice. Bullets snapped past my ear, splintering bark.
No time.
No choice.
I took one last look at the sky, dark purple bleeding into black, then stepped off the edge…
The fall was instant and endless. Wind roared in my ears. My stomach lurched into my throat. The river rushed up to meet me, dark and merciless.
I hit the water feet first, hard.
The impact drove the air from my lungs in a white explosion of bubbles.
Cold shocked every nerve. The current grabbed me instantly, violent and indifferent, dragging me under.
I fought to the surface, gasping, coughing, the duffel bag still miraculously slung across my chest. The weight of it pulled me down again. I kicked, clawed, refused to let go.
The river tumbled me like a rag doll—rocks scraping my legs, my arms, my face. I swallowed water, choked, spat. The current spun me, slammed me against a boulder, then sucked me deeper. Darkness pressed in from every side.
I don’t know how long it lasted…
Seconds. Minutes. An eternity.
Eventually the violence eased. The river slowed, widened. My body bumped against something soft—mud, reeds, an old tree. I clawed at the bank, fingers sinking into wet earth, and dragged myself out inch by inch. The duffel bag came with me, sodden and heavy, but intact.
I collapsed on my back, chest heaving, staring up at the sky.
Stars above me… cold, sharp, indifferent.
My body was a map of pain—cuts, bruises, the graze on my arm still bleeding sluggishly.
But I was alive. Breathing.
The bag of money lay beside me, zipper still closed.
I laughed once—hoarse, broken sound.
“Maybe today wasn’t the day I die after all,” I said to the empty night.
The river rushed on behind me, indifferent as ever.
I lay there a long time, letting the cold seep into my bones, listening to the silence of the night.
They’d lost me.
But I knew they’d never stop looking.
And I knew I’d never stop running.
And I wouldn’t change it for the world…
EARLIER THAT MORNING…
The world returns in fragments.
First: pain. A dull, throbbing hammer inside my skull, radiating out from my left temple. Then taste—copper and salt, blood on my tongue. My mouth feels swollen, lip split. My breathing is shallow, each inhale scraping against bruised ribs.
I’m moving. Not walking. Being dragged.
“What the…” I mutter, a piercing pain as I move my jaw.
Rough hands under my arms, boots scraping asphalt. Gravel bites into my calves through torn trousers. My head lolls forward and I force my eyes open, vision swimming, double then triple then settling into painful clarity.
Two men. Black tactical vests, balaclavas, no insignia.
Professional. Not cops. But not my people either.
I twist, trying to plant my feet, get leverage. One of them laughs and drives a fist into my kidney. Air explodes from my lungs and I sag again.
Across from me, Ivan is slumped in the passenger seat of our wrecked Porsche. Door caved in, glass spiderwebbed. Blood streaks the airbag, dark against white nylon. His head is lolled to the side, eyes closed. Unconscious. Or worse.
“Ivan—” My voice is gravel and rust. Barely audible.
The man on my right yanks me upright. “Shut it.”
I try again, my muscles screaming, to wrench free. My right arm is numb, useless. Left still works. I swing it, connect with something solid, a jaw, maybe. A grunt. Then pain explodes across my face.
Gun butt. Heavy. Metal meeting bone.
The world tilts, stars bursting behind my eyelids.
Blood floods my mouth, hot and thick.
I taste iron, salt, and defeat.
They drag me forward. My knees buckle, all power gone from my legs.
I mutter through swollen lips, the words slurred but defiant:
“I ain’t dying today. Not like this.”
A boot connects with my ribs—once, twice, and a third time for good luck. Air leaves me in a bloody wheeze.
Everything goes black.