14. Dmitri
Dmitri
Dr. Orlov wants a brain scan. It’ll be our first trip outside since her therapy began.
“This is excessive. I feel fine. And you already monitor me at home.”
“Scans see things physical examinations miss. Orlov wants to rule out lingering damage from the explosion.”
“Or maybe that’s the kind of caution you get when you’re buying him a new dacha.”
I almost smile. Three weeks, and she’s learned to doubt.
Good girl. Now remember who you belong to, kotyonok.
“Gray sedan is still with us,” Daniil says tightly. He takes a right that isn’t on our route. The sedan shadows. A dark SUV slides in two cars back. Coincidence dies right there.
“Could be something. Take the next right.”
The sedan follows us through the turn and maintains the same distance. Professional surveillance or paranoid coincidence—in my line of work, both are equally dangerous.
I’ll be damned if I let anyone near my girl.
“What’s happening?” Katya notes the sudden tension in the car.
“Probably nothing. Just being cautious.”
But my hand moves instinctively toward the gun under my jacket as Daniil takes another unnecessary turn. The gray sedan stays with us, joined by a dark SUV that’s keeping pace two cars back.
“Boss,” Boris grunts from the front passenger seat, “we’ve got company.”
Through the rear window, I count at least three vehicles in a loose formation behind us. Too coordinated to be a coincidence, but too obvious to be professionals. Unless being obvious is part of the plan.
“New route,” I tell Daniil. “Take us toward the?—”
The sniper fires. The windshield disintegrates before I can curse.
The shot comes from a rooftop to the north, five stories up, tucked just inside the corner window.
“Get down!” I throw myself over Katya as Daniil slams on the brakes and yanks the wheel hard to the right.
The sedan skids sideways and slams into a parked car with enough force to deploy the airbags. My door won’t open—the frame’s bent from the impact—but Boris kicks out his window and returns fire toward the rooftops.
“Move, move, move!” I shout as I drag Katya through Boris’ window.
We hit the pavement running, with blood streaming from a cut on Katya’s forehead from the crash.
The alley to our right is a dead end; we cut left toward the loading docks.
Boris provides cover fire as we sprint toward a parked truck, bullets sparking off concrete all around us. Katya stumbles but keeps moving as her survival instincts kick in despite the confusion.
“How many?” I shout over the gunfire.
“At least six,” Daniil calls back. “Maybe more on the rooftops.”
A smoke grenade detonates near the truck, and I realize this isn’t a simple assassination attempt. They’re creating cover for extraction.
“They want her alive,” I tell Boris, who nods grimly as he reloads his weapon.
The smoke thickens around us, and we hear the distinct sound of boots on asphalt closing in fast.
“Stay close to me,” I tell Katya, who’s pressing her sleeve against the cut on her forehead.
“What’s happening?”
“The people I told you about. They found us.”
Two men in tactical gear emerge from the smoke like ghosts. I put three rounds center mass in the first one before he can raise his rifle. He drops, but his partner is already firing, forcing me back behind the truck as bullets spark off metal.
Through the smoke, I catch a glimpse of Daniil’s body crumpled against our car, and my chest fills with white-hot rage. He’s worked for my family since I was sixteen years old.
“Boris, we need to move now!”
But Boris is engaged with two attackers who’ve flanked us from the east, and I can hear more footsteps approaching through the haze. They’re surrounding us.
A stun grenade detonates somewhere behind me, and the world goes silent except for a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I spin around to find Katya, but she’s not there.
Through the murk, I see two silhouettes hauling a limp body. Platinum hair snags the light like a flare.
Katya.
“No!” I lunge forward, but someone tackles me from the side and drives me into the pavement hard enough to rattle my teeth.
I roll with the impact and come up with my knife in my hand. The blade slides between my assailant’s ribs with the wet sound of punctured organs, and he collapses with a gurgle of surprise.
By the time I’m on my feet again, the van is pulling away with squealing tires, taking Katya with it.
Boris appears through the smoke with blood on his face and murder in his eyes. “They got her, boss.”
They think they can take what’s mine?
I’ll light this city on fire before I let her go.
“Get Alexei on the line. Full mobilization. Every asset in the city.”
“What about the police?”
“What about them? We own half the precinct commanders, and the other half know better than to interfere.” I step over the body of the man I just killed and head for what’s left of our car. “This is family business now.”
The drive back to headquarters takes fifteen minutes that feel like hours. Every red light, slow-moving pedestrian, and moment of delay makes me want to put my fist through something solid.
Alexei has begrudgingly assembled our top lieutenants in the conference room by the time I arrive, and their faces tell me that word has spread through the organization.
“Talk to me,” I demand as I pour myself three fingers of vodka.
“Preliminary reports indicate six attackers, all deceased except for the extraction team,” Semenov begins. “Professional operation, military-grade equipment, coordinated timing.”
“Which family?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” Alexei slides a photograph across the table.
I study the image of one of the attackers Boris photographed before the police arrived. Clean-shaven, no visible gang markings, and expensive tactical gear that you don’t buy at civilian stores.
“Government?”
“Possibly. Or mercenaries working for someone with serious money.”
“The Borisenkos?”
“That’s my guess.”
I down the vodka in one swallow and slam the glass on the table hard enough to crack it. “I want every Borisenko safe house, business front, and fucking parking meter they own under surveillance within the hour.”
“Already in progress,” Alexei replies. “I’ve got teams moving on their primary locations now.”
“What about informants?”
“Igor’s working his contacts in the police department. Yuri’s reaching out to our people in the hospital networks in case they need medical attention.”
The phone on the conference table rings, and Semenov answers it with a clipped, “Yes.” He listens for thirty seconds before hanging up. “That was Mikhail. He found the van abandoned in Sokolniki Park. No bodies or blood, but they left tire tracks leading east.”
“Toward what?”
“Industrial district. Lots of warehouses and shipping facilities. Perfect for keeping someone who doesn’t want to be kept.”
I stand and button my jacket, feeling the familiar weight of my shoulder holster. “How many men can we field?”
“Thirty. Maybe forty if we pull everyone off their current assignments.”
“Do it. I want them armed and ready to move in twenty minutes.”
“Boss.” Igor speaks up from the far end of the table. “If we go in heavy, and she gets caught in the crossfire…”
The implication makes my vision blur with rage, but he’s right.
Whatever these people want with Katya, they went to crazy lengths to take her alive. That gives us some leverage, but it also means they might not be afraid to hurt her if they feel cornered.
She may not be my real wife.
But that doesn’t matter. She’s mine
And I’ll put a bullet in anyone who forgets it.
“We go in smart. Eyes first, then knives. We pull her out clean.”
“And the men who touched her?”
“They die slowly.”
“No one touches what’s mine and walks away.”
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number .
Your wife is safe for now. Instructions to follow.
I show the message to Alexei, whose face darkens as he reads it.
“They want something.”
“Obviously. But what?”
Another text arrives.
Come alone to the Moskva River pier at midnight. Bring nothing but your phone.
“Like hell,” Alexei snaps. “It’s a trap.”
“Of course, it’s a trap. It’s also the fastest way to find out what they want.”
“Dmitri, she isn’t your wife?—”
“She’s mine. Yuri, I need a swallowable tracker.”
“Boss, no,” Semenov says. “If they scan you?—”
“Then I’ll deal with it. I’m not going to play chess while my wife sits in their hands.”
The next three hours pass in a blur of weapons checks, tactical planning, and systematically intimidating every low-level Borisenko associate we can find. Most of them know nothing useful, but a few provide fragments of information that start to form a pattern.
Increased activity in the old textile district. Unusual purchases of medical supplies and restraint equipment. High-end cars on streets that the Borisenkos don’t own.
“They’re off their turf,” I tell Alexei over the maps. “Too risky otherwise. Somewhere we’re not supposed to look.”
“Or somewhere they think we can’t reach.”
My phone rings. It’s Viktor Petrov. I hit speaker.
He runs the intelligence operations for various families within the Bratva. He’s not the most dangerous man in Moscow, but he’s certainly one of the best-informed. We’ve had an uneasy truce for years because his information networks are too valuable to alienate.
“Dmitri, my friend. I heard you had trouble.”
“Very thoughtful, Viktor.”
“These are dangerous times for family men. So much violence in the streets.”
“Indeed. Almost like someone wants a war.”
“Wars are bad for business, don’t you think?”
I lean back in my chair, studying the faces around the conference table. Everyone’s listening to this conversation with the same thought: Viktor knows more than he’s admitting.
“What do you want, Viktor?”
“Just to express my condolences about your wife’s situation. Such a tragedy when innocent people get caught up in business disputes.”
“She’s not caught up in anything. She was taken.”
“Yes, so I heard. By people with very particular interests.”
The phrasing makes me sit forward. “What kind of interests?”
“The kind that involve questions about her past. Before she became Mrs. Kozlov.”
My blood turns to ice. “What do you know about her past?”
“She’s not who you think, Dmitri. And they’ve hunted her longer than you’ve known her.”
The line goes dead, leaving the room in silence.
“He’s playing games,” Alexei says quietly. “Viktor always knows more than he lets on, but he never gets involved unless there’s something in it for him.”
“What could he gain from this?”
“Territory. Influence. Maybe he’s working with whoever took her.”
I stare at the phone for a moment. If Viktor’s involved, this isn’t just about rival families or business disputes.
“Boss,” Igor calls from comms. “Package from Viktor.”
We crowd the laptop. Traffic cams near the textile district show a black SUV entering a warehouse at 4:17 a.m. and never exiting.
“That’s it,” I say. “They’re holding her there. The pier can wait.”
“Order it.” Alexei says, his eyes on me.
I check my watch. Two hours until the meeting at the pier, which gives us just enough time for reconnaissance.
“We go quiet. Map the location, count the guards, then move. If I don’t come back from the pier, you burn that warehouse to the ground and pull her out.”
“Dmitri—”
“That’s an order.” I take my jacket. “If I don’t make it out, everyone involved dies slowly.”