Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
ANYA
I pull up the live cam feed, heart already pounding too loud, and there she is on the driveway camera, hoodie up, face turned half away like she knows the lens is watching and doesn't want to give it her eyes, pulling the SUV out smooth and steady, no pause, gate closing behind her while I sit here frozen watching the taillights fade down the road.
I call her and it goes straight to voicemail, her voice cool and clipped telling me to leave a message. I hang up, call again, same thing, third time I leave one that comes out rough, "Anya, pick up the phone. Right fucking now. Tell me where you are."
She doesn’t call me back. I'm out of the chair fast, boots hitting the floor as I head down the hall, past the bar where a couple prospects are restocking bottles, and I snap at the closest one, "Go get Lucky and Blade, tell them office, now," then keep moving back to my desk, fingers already flying across the secure laptop pulling tower pings, traffic cams I keep access to through old favors, and it doesn't take long, maybe five minutes before the picture slams together ugly and clear: her phone goes dark at the house, truck pings toward the Meridian Hotel downtown, stops in the underground garage, no movement for twenty-three minutes after that, then an airstrip feed shows a blacked-out SUV rolling up to a Gulfstream, two suits hauling a limp body, her hoodie, her hair, her boots, up the stairs, jet taxis and lifts off east, flight plan filed for Moscow via Iceland refuel, registered to a shell that traces straight back to Orlovsky Holdings in three clicks.
Konstantin took her. My vision narrows, blood roaring in my ears so loud I almost miss the door banging open. Lucky steps in first, Blade right behind, both of them reading my face and going still because they know this look, the one I don't wear often.
"Brother, what's going on?" Lucky asks, voice careful, like he's approaching something that might explode.
I spin the laptop toward them so they can see the flight tracker glowing red across the Atlantic, the frozen airstrip still of her being carried like dead weight.
Blade leans in close, squints at the screen, then swears under his breath. "That's Anya. They took her."
"Yeah," I say, and my voice comes out flat, too flat, the kind that makes people back up. "Konstantin put her on a jet to Russia. She drove herself to the Meridian this morning, alone, didn't tell me a damn thing, and they sedated her, carried her up the stairs like luggage."
Lucky grips the back of my chair, knuckles white. "She went to meet him on her own?"
"She left the house at 09:47." I point at the gate timestamp. "No text, no heads-up, just gone. Phone's dead now. SUV is still parked at the hotel."
Blade rubs a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking from me to the screen and back. "She's not stupid, man. If she went to him, she had a plan."
"Her plan didn't include coming back," I snap, and the words taste bitter because I know who she is, a Dragunov raised on blood and guns and never folding, but that doesn't stop the cold fist twisting in my chest. "They carried her up those stairs unconscious. Whatever she tried, it didn't work."
The office goes quiet for a second, then Lucky straightens up. "We need to bring this to Mason and the table. Right now."
I don't argue.
Ten minutes later the chapel is packed. Every patched member crammed in, prospects guarding the doors, Mason at the head of the table with his gavel resting in front of him.
His face is already hard because he knows something’s fucked when I walk in looking like this.
I don’t sit. I just stand there with my knuckles braced on the wood, voice low but carrying to every corner.
“Konstantin Orlovsky took Anya. Drugged her, flew her to Russia. She’s gone.
I want the club’s help getting her back. ”
Mason leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Walk us through it, Riot. All of it.”
I lay it out quick. The gate alert. The frozen tracker. The hotel ping. The airstrip footage. The jet’s path to Moscow. The shell company ties to Orlovsky. The room stays dead silent while I talk, then erupts in low curses when I finish.
Mason taps the gavel once, not to call order but to ground everyone. “She’s your woman, brother. That makes her ours. Iron Reapers don’t let anyone take what’s family.”
Lucky nods from his spot at the table. “She’s got our patch on her in every way that counts. Nobody touches an old lady and walks away from it.”
Blade adds, “We’ve got contacts in Eastern Europe already. Smugglers, mercs, a couple guys who owe us big. We can have boots on the ground in Moscow inside forty-eight hours if we push.”
Tank cracks his knuckles, leaning back. “She’s Bratva royalty too. Her dad’s gonna want blood for this. You calling Viktor Dragunov?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But we link up on their turf now. They’re already in Moscow.”
I pull out my phone and dial the emergency number Anya gave me months ago. It rings straight through. Mikhail answers on the second ring, voice tight like he’s already halfway to murder. “Who is this?”
“Riot. Where’s Viktor?”
Mikhail exhales sharp. “Hospital here in Moscow. Papa’s stable but sedated. Brake line cut, secondary explosive rigged. Professional job. We got him to a private clinic fast, no official report yet. Konstantin’s people did it. Now tell me why the fuck you’re calling from across the ocean.”
I grip the phone harder. “Your sister’s gone.
Konstantin took her this morning. She went to meet him alone at the Meridian.
Didn’t come back. They sedated her, carried her onto a jet.
Flight path straight to Moscow. Her phone’s dead, truck’s still parked at the hotel. I watched the airstrip footage myself.”
Silence hits hard on his end. Then Mikhail curses low in Russian, something vicious. “She went alone? After what happened to Papa? Fuck. She knew something. She didn’t tell you?”
“She left without a word. I found out too late, same as you.”
He breathes heavy for a second. “Papa’s not waking up anytime soon. Doctors have him under heavy. Dmitri and I are locked down at the clinic with him. You got a plan or you just calling to tell me she’s gone?”
“I’ve got the club behind me. We’re moving.
Charter’s fueling now. Small team flies out tonight: me, Lucky, Blade, and Mason.
We’ll link up with you in Moscow. We plan on your ground.
We hit Konstantin hard. And if you’re thinking about handling this quiet through your channels alone, forget it.
She’s my woman. We do this loud and we do this together. ”
Mikhail doesn’t answer right away. I can hear hospital sounds in the background, beeps, low voices.
Then he says, “We’re at the family compound after we move Papa if needed.
Get here fast. Tell your president we’ll have a secure meet spot.
Armed escort when you land. No bullshit at customs. We pull strings. ”
“Good,” I say, and hang up.
Mason looks at me across the table. “They’re already in Moscow?”
“Yeah. Papa’s in a private hospital there. Mikhail and Dmitri are with him. We fly to them.”
Mason nods once, slow. “Then we move. Riot, you’re point on intel and lead the advance team. Lucky, Blade, you’re with him. Rest of you start calling in every favor we’ve got overseas. Gear up. We don’t sleep until she’s home.”
I look around the table, meet every pair of eyes. “She’s one of us. Bratva princess or not, she sleeps in my bed, rides on my bike, she’s family. Nobody fucks with an Iron Reapers woman and breathes after. We get her back.”
The chapel erupts. Low growls and fists thumping wood. The clubhouse feels alive, breathing fire like it hasn’t in years.
Konstantin wanted a war. He’s got one.
Twenty minutes after I hang up with Mikhail the clubhouse is buzzing harder.
Gear bags piling up, prospects running burner phones and clean docs.
I’m in the office staring at satellite feeds of the family estate outside St. Petersburg when Mason sticks his head in.
“Your team’s wheels up in six. Helsinki strip first, then overland to Moscow.
Mikhail texted coords for a meet. Secure warehouse near the clinic. They’ll have people waiting.”
I nod. “We land quiet, link with Dmitri or Mikhail, scout the estate. Konstantin’s holding her there. Old compound, high walls. He wants her to make a statement. If she refuses…”
Mason finishes it. “He’ll force it. Or worse.”
“Yeah. We get eyes on her first. Confirm she’s alive. Then we extract. Clean if we can. Loud if we have to.”
Lucky walks in, duffel slung over his shoulder. “Blade’s loading suppressors and comms. Tank’s got the prospects locking this place down. You ready to fly into the lion’s den with her brothers?”
I stand. “They’re family now too. Mikhail’s pissed, but he wants her back same as me. We use that.”
The room quiets for a second. Then Lucky grins dark. “Moscow’s about to get messy.”
We head out to the charter. Plane’s fueled, passports clean, weapons crated for the other side.
I settle into the seat, staring out at the tarmac while the engines whine up.
Anya’s out there right now, probably fighting every second with whatever she’s got left, probably bleeding from the glass or the needle or whatever else they did to her, probably waiting for the door to crash open and someone to finally come through it.
And I’m coming. No question. With Lucky and Blade at my six, ready to turn that city into a graveyard if that’s what it takes.
With Mikhail and Dmitri waiting on the ground, armed and raging, guarding their sedated father in some fortified clinic while we close in on Konstantin.
Papa’s alive but out of the fight for now. That just means more blood on the line.
Konstantin thinks he owns her, thinks he can chain her up again and force her into his perfect little legacy picture, but he’s about to learn exactly what happens when you take a woman who belongs to the Iron Reapers and the Dragunovs both.
Because we’re not just getting her back.
We’re ending him. Ending every single person who helped him put hands on her.
One way or another. Slow or fast. Quiet or loud.
Until there’s nothing left but ash and the message that she’s untouchable.