68. Vasiliy
Iam a realist.
Or at least, I used to be.
Octavia Siderov ruined my twenty-seven-year streak of cynicism with a single hair flip and a careless thrust of her middle finger.
My legs haven’t quit jittering ever since I shut her car door and watched her drive off.
Even now, my knees knock into Alex’s on the other side of the van as I shift.
I know she’s in charge. I know she’s brilliant and strong and a beast with close combat.
I trained her myself, after all. I’ve watched her lull massive men into a haze of superiority with her unassuming size and gorgeous features, only to flip them onto their backs the second their guard drops.
She is every bit the leader her blood demands.
And yet, for some illogical reason, I can’t stop hearing echoes of Marta’s voice from all those years ago.
When she read me fairytales as a boy, I remember her words becoming so deep and vibrant while narrating the characters that it felt like she could channel any power.
She was a force larger than life. Brighter than the shadows that grow like mold in the Morozov compound.
And all it took was a single, well-placed bullet to snuff out her existence.
I jump from the hand that lands on my rattling knee.
“She’ll be okay.” Alex is still bathed in so much pain, it’s difficult to look him in the eye and not feel the aftershocks. “It’s already seven-thirty. You’ll be inside in no time.”
I nod, pretending his words help. It doesn’t matter that she’s only been inside for fifteen minutes. She shouldn’t be in danger. Period. I should’ve come up with a better plan. I should’ve demanded that she stay out of harm’s way…
Except I fell in love with the woman who leads her troops into war, not the one who wants to be locked away. We’ve already survived the cage. We’ve weathered so much shit in the past few months that it’s a miracle we’re still fighting.
I rub my eyes.
“I’m a failure, as well,” Alex whispers, only loud enough for me to hear. His boys are piled into the other side of the van, picking Ivan’s mind about the attack strategies as we wait.
“A failure?”
He nods, gaze drifting to the blacked-out window. “As a father, a brother, a husband…” he pauses, shaking his head. “And now as an uncle, too. I’ve traded my niece for my son.”
“Kirill does not need your anguish.” Bracing my hands on my knees, I lean even closer. The weapons stored throughout my pants dig into my flesh. “He needs Octavia’s rage.”
Alex looks back at me, then dips his chin in a solemn nod.
“So we’ll mobilize at eight,” Nik says, pulling me back to their low discussion.
“And Vasiliy will slip inside,” Ivan says with a nod. “I’ll lead team one through the back, you’ll lead team two in the front. For the first fifteen minutes, the objective is not victory. Our job is to be loud as hell.”
“We deploy the grenades first, then,” Ben says. “I’ve already informed our contacts in the local PD not to mobilize for explosions in our area. The last thing we need is to factor cops into the mix.”
“We should source our grenades through Solokov more often,” Nik quips. “You guys are cheap as fuck.”
“That’s because I got them, you moron,” Ivan picks at his nails. “Employee fucking discount. Don’t get used to it.”
I look down at my watch, willing the hands to turn faster.
Was it really only a handful of months ago when a vengeful goddess crawled through the darkness and asked me for a trade?
I was such a fool back then. Three drops.
The scale was never supposed to straighten out.
I want ownership over every last cell in her body.
I want to be the victim of her dry sarcasm and the source of her mood-altering laughs.
My entire existence spins around the axis of Octavia Siderov, and the longer she spends in that fucking compound, the further my fibers fray.
Come on, moya zlaya.
Survive a few more minutes, and then I’ll lead the reckoning you deserve.
When my watch’s hand finally drags towards the eight, I’ve finished my weapons check three times over, hands ghosting over every blade, gun, and bullet on my body. Everything is accounted for, but it still feels like something’s missing.
Metal groans as I slide the van door open and step into the inky night. Bodies slip out behind me, following suit. The sun has fallen into the distant trees, and the evening birds are chirping their final calls.
I’m distracted, still trying to determine what feels so off, when Ivan sidles up and clasps my shoulder.
“Come on, kid. Nothing like a beautiful brawl to save a shitty week.” His white teeth glint in the darkness through a crazed grin. “It’s time to go get your woman.”
The doors of several more vans groan open, bootsteps filling the sideroad we staged on.
Machine gun already in hand, Ivan looks every bit the formidable victor our soldiers need to see leading the charge.
With only a parting nod to Ben and Nik, we split off with our coalition, stepping into the dense treeline that meets the back gate.
“Remember, the stairs to the holding cell block are on the left—”
“I know.”
I spent the last twenty-four hours burning the blueprints into my mind.
Even as I step over a fallen branch, I can see a mental rendition of the dining table where my wife is likely sitting.
I can see that pretentious chandelier presiding over the head chair and the large sheets of windows that leave the room foolishly exposed.
I raise a fist, stopping the twenty-something bodies behind me. We’re about thirty feet from the nearest sniper and forty-five from the stationed guards. We’ll only take another step when we’re ready to be seen.
Ivan presses a finger to his earpiece, eyes glittering with excitement. “Team two is in position. Back-up squads three and four are prepped for the second wave.” He rolls his head, neck cracking. “We’re ready.”
Ivan’s hand sinks into his side pocket and reemerges with two grenades. He drops one into my waiting grip like a kid splitting a candy bar with his friend. Then his finger loops through the trigger, and his grenade taps mine.
He grins broadly. “Cheers, motherfucker.”
Click.
With a delightful swing, the metal leaves my palm. Flies through the air…
And the world erupts in deafening flames.
I’m running before the explosion stops reverberating. There’s already a second one to fill the void. Shouts compete with the booms of returning gunfire.
“Go, go, go!” Ivan yells, sprinting towards the metal gate with his weapon raised. More grenades light up the sky from the other side of the house. Ben’s crew. My own steps are silent as I race along the edges of our group, keeping a low profile in the chaos.
One glance up confirms the snipers are absent from their positions on the top of the gate pillars. With the next explosion, I speed towards the glinting metal and leap onto the rungs. The hard poles slam into my side with bruising force.
Footsteps fade out as our soldiers follow Ivan’s march along the far side of the gates.
Dozens of weapons fire overlapping shots, but I wrap my fingers around the next rung and heave myself up the cool metal.
Another grenade lights the air like a firework display.
Miraculously, I manage to reach the top before getting shot down…
The high-pitched ping of a bullet ricochets beside my shoulder, heating my skin. Spoke too soon.
A single rogue breaks up the darkness on their side of the gate, unswayed by Ivan’s diversion. Something gleams beneath the moon. His gun raises again, lining up with my chest…
I jump from the other side of the gate, plummeting through the air at harrowing speed.
My bones are crashing against his before his next bullet leaves the chamber.
He breaks my fall, stumbling back onto the trimmed grass below.
A grunt sounds as I twist his arm, pressing the hot barrel to clammy skin.
Bang.
His head leaps back to the dirt with a spray of blood, but the shot is lost beneath the cover of distant explosions.
Have to keep moving.
Dirt clings as I crawl to my feet and sprint away from the mess.
The front of Popov’s mansion may be composed of glass, but back here, the original structure is unchanged.
Thick, impenetrable stones rise from the soil to the fifth floor, and weeds grow unhindered along the base.
He’s the type of man who only puts stock in front-facing appearances. Tonight, that will be his downfall.
My hand traces the rough slab.
Come on, come on…
Wait. My fingers catch in a gap far more decayed than the rest. I wiggle the rock.
There.
The brick comes loose. I laugh in amazement, tossing the piece aside. The entrance—it’s real.
It doesn’t take me long to remove the superficial blocks unsealed from the rest of the structure.
How fitting for a man like that to be brought down by his overlooked daughter.
The pieces keep wiggling free, joining the others in the weeds.
Come tomorrow, Della Popov will have saved her kid’s life twice.
Once as a mother, and once from the grave.
When enough pieces have been removed to expose the crawlspace, I drop to my knees and flick on my flashlight. Sure enough, the gap stretches out in the same curve etched into her journal. Rotten wood and mildew seep into my nostrils as I crawl on, and the sound of gunfire fades out of reach.
I check my watch. Eight-twelve.
I’m on time. Ahead of schedule, even.
The false dead-end approaches, but I’m unfazed. Another loose brick wiggles free beneath the glow of my flashlight, carved out with the impatient knife strokes of a twelve-year-old’s hand.
Light streams into the pit, and more bricks wiggle loose. I break free in the precise spot Octavia marked on our map.
Soundless as a mouse, I slip out through the false back of the storage closet.
Where the rice bags are stowed. Turns out not much has changed in the Popov compound throughout the last two decades.
Except, instead of turning right like Della wrote, I go left.
The sounds of the fight outside are deafening, booming through the house’s thin glass exterior.
Please, baby. Please be safe.
Please be hidden.
My boots thunder down the back staircase.
I have yet to see a member of Popov’s staff inside the house, and I can admit that the unexpected ease makes me nervous.
It’s understandable for the kitchen staff to flee from their dinner preparations at the sound of explosions, but where the hell are his guards?
I descend the last few steps. My gun raises as I flip the corner, but once again, there’s no one there. The door is bare. My stomach sinks further.
Who would be so stupid as to leave their leverage unguarded, even in the face of an attack?
Unfortunately, when I twist the handle and slip into the holding room, I find my answer.
It’s a standard cell. Stale blood is smeared on the floor. There’s an interrogation chair in the center, and an abandoned cup of water in the back. Except the chains on the far wall hang limp.
Empty.
There’s no one down here to guard.