16. Ivan
16
IVAN
W ires snake across the floor, screens stacked on top of each other, blinking like an airport runway at night. A half-eaten sandwich sits next to a motherboard, the crumbs blending in with the dust.
Maxim and I sit as Vika works. The girl is a mess—chipped nail polish, a screwdriver tucked behind her ear, frayed hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, her eyes darting between screens filled with scrolling code.
This isn’t my world. The mess, the technology, the insanity of trusting an outsider. But it doesn’t matter. I need answers and, according to Maxim, she’s the best.
More importantly—I need to end this.
Cora is sleeping in the next room. Safe. For now. I made sure she was comfortable before letting Maxim drag me in here. I didn’t want to leave her. I still don’t. But this is necessary.
She deserves peace. And the only way to give her that is by killing Darren. To do that, I’ll put up with any amount of mess.
Vika mutters something under her breath, snapping me back to the moment.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Initializing tracker nullification protocol,” she mutters, eyes locked on the interface. “I’ve got the signal refracting through a multi-node spoofing array with recursive packet loopbacks—should hold while I reconfigure.”
“In English?”
“Stopping Darren from tracking you down.”
I cross my arms, my gaze fixed on the screens. "How long before he locks onto the signal?"
She scoffs. "Do I look like a goddamn magician?" Her fingers don’t stop moving. "Five minutes. Maybe six."
Maxim exhales next to me, restless. Impatient. "Just get it done, Vika."
“Be a lot faster if you two stopped yakking at me.”
Alarms blare on the screen.
The sound is sharp, grating, like a warning siren before a bomb drops. “What’s that mean?” I ask.
Vika goes rigid, her expression shifting from cocky amusement to cold calculation.
"Shit." She leans closer, typing faster. "They’re getting close to breaking through.”
The air in the room changes instantly.
"How the hell is it still active?" Maxim demands, his voice tight. “Work faster.”
"Getting there." Vika’s tone is sharp, but her hands don’t stop moving. "Darren’s men are tracking in real-time. They’re bouncing the signal off multiple locations, narrowing in. It’s like breadcrumbs—every refresh gets them closer. God, I love this shit."
My entire body locks down. Cora is here. Vulnerable. Unprotected.
Vika hesitates. Not a good sign.
Then, she points to the screen.
A red marker disappears. Then another.
She curses again, hammering the keyboard. "I can do this, but I need more time."
"You don’t have time," I snap.
Her fingers blur over the keys. The screens flicker, glitch.
A new pulse. Red. Too close.
I grip the edge of the desk, every muscle in my body tensed. The thought of Cora in the next room, asleep, defenseless, vulnerable. I’m on my feet, ready to get her the fuck out of here.
"Vika." My voice is a growl.
"I’m working on it!"
She types so fast the keys blur under her fingers. Lines of code scroll. The signal flickers.
And then?—
The screen goes dark.
The alarms cut off.
The red markers disappear.
She collapses back in her chair, exhaling hard. "Tracker disabled." Her voice is tight, but victorious. “You’re welcome.”
Maxim exhales, rolling his shoulders. I don’t move.
My chest rises and falls slowly, controlled. The urge to go to the next room, wake Cora, and take her somewhere even safer is overwhelming—but that won’t solve this.
Darren will keep hunting her until he’s dead.
So I shove everything else aside. The protectiveness. The raw fucking emotion I don’t know what to do with. And I focus.
Vika cracks her knuckles and rolls her shoulders before diving back into the keyboard, her focus sharper now that the immediate danger has passed. “What are you smiling at?” Maxim asks.
“Now the fun begins,” she says. “Time to decrypt this motherfucker.”
She types furiously, her fingernails clicking against the keys. The glow of the screens paints her face in shades of blue and green, her pupils blown wide from too much caffeine.
Lines of code scroll in rapid succession, breaking through Darren’s pathetic attempts at encryption. “Feeble,” she says. “So basic.” She mutters something under her breath—a mix of Russian and profanity—then suddenly, she stills. “Almost there.”
The screen flashes.
Files flood in. Hundreds of them.
"We’re in."
Maxim and I both lean toward the screen.
And what I see makes my blood turn to ice.
Transactions. Names. Videos.
Records of sales, purchases—people being moved like cargo.
I feel it before I even look at Maxim. The shift in the air. The silence stretching taut.
"Jesus Christ," Maxim mutters, his voice flat, unreadable. “It’s their entire fucking empire.”
Vika’s lips press into a thin line as she scrolls through the files. Money transfers, offshore accounts, surveillance footage. And then?—
A video feed.
She hesitates. Then clicks it open.
A security camera recording flickers to life. A dimly lit warehouse. Cages. People inside them.
I stare at the grainy footage, my jaw tightening. The date stamp is from last week.
"This isn’t just smuggling," Maxim says under his breath. "It’s a full-scale trafficking network."
My hands curl into fists.
The footage keeps playing. I don’t recognize the warehouse—but I recognize one of the men walking past the cages.
Darren.
His face is smug, arrogant. He thinks he’s untouchable.
He won’t be for long.
"Guessing Vlad dug into his systems," Vika says as she clicks through more files. “Shoved it all on here. No wonder Darren wants it back.”
She starts scrolling, opening more files. Emails. Bank transactions.
Then, she stops. Her lips part slightly, a slow, dawning realization overtaking her expression.
"Oh, fuck."
My eyes flick to the screen.
More names. Politicians. Law enforcement. Officials Darren had on his payroll.
The door behind me creaks open.
I turn instantly, body still wired from the near disaster.
Cora stands in the doorway. Sleep-tousled, but sharp-eyed.
For a moment, I just look at her. She should still be asleep. She looks incredible. I can’t get over how good she looks.
Her gaze flicks to the screens. The files. The evidence. The horror.
Her spine straightens.
"What did you find?"
Maxim exhales beside me, rubbing a hand over his face. Vika doesn’t even bother pretending to be discreet—she watches like she’s waiting for a bomb to go off.
I step toward Cora. I don’t like her standing there, in this room, surrounded by this filth.
"You should be resting."
Her brows pull together. "What did you find?"
Something inside me snaps.
"You’re pregnant, Cora. You don’t need this stress."
Her lips press together, but she doesn’t back down. Of course she doesn’t.
"And I’m still capable."
I scan her face, reading every detail. She’s stubborn, but she’s still exhausted. Still bruised. The lingering shadows of the past days cling to her. But her eyes burn with defiance.
She doesn’t understand.
I let out a slow breath, my fingers curling into fists. "The important thing is you stay safe."
“I want to know what’s on that drive.”
Vika glances our way. “Take your domestic through there. I’ve got to concentrate.”
I take Cora’s hand. “Come on. We’ll talk in there.”