Chapter Five - Elena
I spend three days planning before I make a single move.
Three days of careful research, discreet phone calls to contacts I haven’t spoken to in years, small payments to people who know people who know things they shouldn’t.
The kind of information gathering that leaves no obvious trail but costs more than money—it costs favors, trust, the careful erosion of boundaries I swore I’d never cross.
Desperation makes liars of us all.
The target reveals itself slowly, piece by piece. A logistics firm operating out of an industrial complex in east Moscow, registered under a shell company that traces back through three layers of corporate ownership to a holding group with known Bratva ties.
On paper, it handles freight coordination and supply chain management. Legitimate business, legitimate employees, legitimate tax filings.
Except the freight manifests don’t match the actual shipments. The supply chains route through territories controlled by families under Sharov’s authority. The corporate ownership structure mirrors patterns I’ve seen in the documents detailing my family’s collapse.
This is one of his hubs. Has to be.
I memorize shift schedules pulled from a bribed security supervisor.
Learn employee access protocols from a cleaning contractor who needed cash more than loyalty.
Study floor plans obtained through public records requests that shouldn’t have been granted but were, because the right official got the right envelope.
By the time I’m ready to move, I know which entrance has the laziest guards, which corridors have camera blind spots, which terminals stay logged in overnight because employees forget to secure their workstations.
I know exactly how stupid this is.
I do it anyway.
***
The cleaning company uniform fits poorly, too large in the shoulders and too short in the legs. I bought it from a woman who works the late shift, paid her enough that she won’t ask questions when she calls in sick tonight.
The employee ID is forged, good enough to pass a casual inspection but not detailed scrutiny. The credentials loaded onto the magnetic strip came from a database hack that cost me most of my remaining liquid cash.
I’m betting my life on forgery and borrowed access.
My hands are steady as I approach the service entrance at 11:40 p.m. The guard barely looks up from his phone, just waves me through with the bored disinterest of someone who’s seen a thousand cleaning staff and doesn’t care about a thousand and one.
Inside, the building is exactly what I expected—industrial functionality wrapped in corporate aesthetics.
Gray walls, fluorescent lighting, the smell of floor cleaner and stale coffee.
I push a cart loaded with supplies, head down, moving with the purposeful anonymity of someone who belongs here because they’re invisible.
The first floor is administration. Nothing useful. I take the service elevator to the third floor where the real work happens, according to my intelligence. The doors open onto a corridor lined with offices, most of them dark, a few still lit where employees work late.
I avoid those. Keep moving, cart wheels squeaking slightly, until I reach the storage room that doubles as a network hub according to the floor plans.
The door is locked. My borrowed credentials open it with a soft click that sounds deafening in the quiet.
Inside, the room is cramped and hot, filled with server racks and cable management that looks like organized chaos. I pull out the laptop I’ve hidden under cleaning supplies, plug into a terminal, and start working.
My hands move automatically, muscle memory from years of database management and financial analysis. Find the login credentials left active. Navigate to the shared drives. Search for anything containing keywords: Lawrence, acquisitions, shell companies, regulatory pressure.
The files appear faster than I expected. Transaction logs. Communication records. Legal documents detailing seizures and freezes. Everything is here, meticulously organized, probably because whoever manages this system never expected someone to access it who shouldn’t.
I transfer everything onto an encrypted drive, watching the progress bar crawl across my screen. Sixty percent. Seventy. The room is stifling, and sweat trickles down my spine beneath the uniform.
Eighty-five percent.
A voice outside the door makes my heart stop.
“—told him the shipment clears tomorrow, not tonight. He needs to learn patience.”
Footsteps approaching. I yank the drive from the port before the transfer completes, shove the laptop back under supplies, and grab a spray bottle like I’m actually here to clean.
The door opens. Two men in suits, mid-conversation, stop short when they see me.
“Who are you?” the first one asks. Younger, suspicious eyes immediately cataloging details.
I keep my expression neutral, bored even. “Cleaning service. Building management sent me.”
“We didn’t request cleaning tonight.”
“I don’t make the schedule.” I shrug, turning back to the server rack like I’m wiping down surfaces. “Complaint about dust accumulation affecting equipment. You want me to skip this room, take it up with maintenance.”
The lie comes out smooth, practiced. I’ve learned to lie well over the years; every bastard daughter does, when truth means admitting you don’t quite belong.
The second man, older and less interested, tugs on his companion’s sleeve. “Leave her. We have the meeting in ten minutes.”
“I’ve never seen her before.”
“You’ve never seen half the cleaning staff. Come on.”
They hesitate. I can feel their eyes on my back, evaluating, deciding whether I’m worth the trouble of verification. My hand stays steady on the spray bottle but my pulse hammers against my throat.
Finally, the older one wins. “Fine, but lock up when you’re done.”
“Will do.”
They leave, their conversation resuming as they walk away. I wait until their footsteps fade completely before exhaling the breath I’ve been holding.
Too close. Way too close.
I need to leave. Now. Forget the complete transfer, forget checking for additional files. I have enough to prove the connection between Sharov’s operations and my family’s collapse. Enough to take to authorities or journalists or anyone who might actually care.
I gather my supplies, arrange the cart, and head for the door.
The corridor is empty. I move quickly now, abandoning the pretense of leisurely cleaning. The service elevator is at the end of the hall. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Almost there.
The atmosphere changes before I understand why.
Movement slows throughout the building, like everyone suddenly became aware of something I haven’t noticed yet. An employee hurrying past me stops, straightens his tie, shifts his posture. Guards at the far end of the corridor snap to attention, hands moving to earpieces.
Then I hear it. A voice carrying down the hallway, speaking rapid Russian that I only partly understand. I recognize the tone—authority that doesn’t need to be loud to command attention.
I recognize the voice itself. Aleksandr Sharov. Here. Now. In this building at nearly midnight when he has no reason to be here except—
Except he does have a reason. This is his operation. His hub. Of course he comes here, probably unannounced to keep everyone sharp and afraid.
I’m fifteen meters from the elevator with nowhere to hide.
I keep walking, head down, pushing the cart like nothing is wrong. Maybe he won’t notice. Maybe he’s focused on whatever brought him here at this hour. Maybe I can slip past before—
“Stop.”
The single word freezes everyone in the corridor. Including me.
I don’t turn around. Don’t react. Just stop pushing the cart and stand there, hoping against hope that he’s talking to someone else, that this is coincidence, that I can still—
“You. Cleaning staff. Turn around.”
His voice is closer now. How is it closer? How did he move that fast without me hearing?
I have two choices. Run and confirm his suspicion. Or turn around and lie better than I’ve ever lied in my life.
I turn around.
Aleksandr Sharov stands ten meters away, surrounded by men in dark suits who radiate violence barely contained.
He’s dressed for business—charcoal suit, no tie, top button undone like he’s been working late.
His hair is slightly disheveled, and there’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw that makes him look more dangerous than polished.
Recognition flashes across his face immediately. Not confusion. Not curiosity. Instant, certain recognition.
He knows exactly who I am.
The moment stretches, suspended in terrible clarity. I see the calculation behind his eyes, the rapid processing of how I’m here, why I’m here, what this means. I watch understanding settle into something darker and more dangerous.
This wasn’t clever. This was suicidal.