Chapter 26 Misha
MISHA
Dawn bleeds gray light across the industrial district, the shadows retreating from concrete and rusted steel.
I park my car two blocks from the warehouse complex, engine ticking as it cools.
Beside me, Vera adjusts the binoculars, scanning loading docks and access roads.
We were awake late, mapping out exactly where Sonya would be, or at least where we believe she will be based on information we got from a few very honest, very frightened jockey friends of Vera's.
"I see something," she whispers. "Near that corner over there."
Through the windshield, I watch Sonya's familiar vehicle navigate between potholes and construction barriers. She doesn't appear to know we're here, which is good for us. She feels safe and at home on her own turf, and we can use that to our advantage.
"Do you think this will work?" Vera asks, lowering the binoculars and frowning at me. She's too afraid, but there's no talking her out of this.
"It has to, and quickly." I take the binoculars from her hand and lift them to my eyes. I know Vera feels every emotion, but I have to deaden my heart for now or I’ll get paralyzed by the risk we're taking. I can't lose Vera and she is foolishly rushing headfirst into danger.
The car disappears behind the warehouse's bulk, hidden by concrete walls and industrial equipment. We wait, counting minutes, watching for patterns that reveal operational security.
At six forty-five, a white panel van emerges from the opposite direction, license plates too dirty to read from our distance. The vehicle moves very slowly, its driver scanning surroundings before committing to the approach.
"What is he doing?" I say more to myself than anything. They're doing some sort of deal and I get the feeling we're interrupting it.
Through magnified lenses, I study the van's profile, memorizing details that might prove useful later. The driver wears a baseball cap and sunglasses despite overcast skies. Passenger seat remains empty, but the cargo area could hold anything from cash to bodies.
"There." Vera points toward the warehouse's eastern loading dock. "Sonya."
She rounds the corner carrying a leather briefcase.
She's moving quickly, like a scared mouse skittering.
The woman I remember as controlled and calculating now shows stress fractures, the kind that appear when operations spiral beyond comfortable parameters.
Our little conversation with lead in the parking garage last night has spooked her.
The van parks and the driver emerges—mid-thirties, athletic build, wearing coveralls that could hide multiple weapons. I recognize him from surveillance photos Rolan shared weeks ago.
"Igor Sokolov," I tell Vera. "Radich crew member, specializes in cash transport and document forgery." My eyes never leave the sight, but I know she's listening to me.
They meet between the vehicles. Their conversation is brief and businesslike.
Sonya hands over the briefcase. Igor produces a manila envelope from his coveralls.
The exchange takes less than thirty seconds.
But as Igor returns to his van, a second car appears from behind the warehouse—black sedan with tinted windows, two occupants clearly visible through the windshield.
The sedan positions itself for overwatch, occupants scanning approaches while Igor starts his engine. They're here to keep things moving smoothly, but they don't know the storm coming for them.
Through the binoculars, I identify the driver of the security car—Timur Kadyrov, one of Radich's enforcers, known for explosive violence and poor impulse control. The passenger speaks into a cell phone, probably coordinating with other units.
Sonya disappears back around the building and moments later, her car reappears and drives away, mission complete.
But Igor's van turns toward the river district instead of returning the way it came.
Immediately, I know there needs to be a change of plans.
Sonya isn't the biggest fish. These men are swimming upstream and I have to find out where they're going.
I start our engine. "We follow the van."
"What about the security car?" She grips the handle of the door as I drop the binoculars on her lap.
"They'll follow us. The question becomes who springs the trap first."
The van maintains conservative speed through industrial streets, the driver checking mirrors but not varying his route enough to lose determined pursuit. Igor knows his business but lacks paranoia, the fatal flaw that separates long-term survivors from early casualties.
Behind us, the black sedan maintains a two-block distance, professional spacing that allows reaction time without losing visual contact. They are textbook, and it gives me an eerie chill.
We trail the convoy through neighborhoods that transition from industrial to residential, past apartment blocks and corner markets where ordinary people conduct ordinary lives. The contrast feels surreal—tracking killers and money through Moscow's mundane geography.
The van turns toward the Klyazma River, following roads that narrow and deteriorate as they approach the water. With fewer witnesses here, there are more opportunities for violence without civilian interference.
"He's not going to another warehouse," Vera says, studying our surroundings. "This leads to the boat launches."
River transport…?
The realization is slow coming, but it makes perfect sense. The Radich crew moves their cash by water, using private docks and unmarked vessels to avoid road checkpoints and electronic surveillance. Brilliant and obvious, simultaneously.
I reach for my phone to call Gregor, the spotter I positioned for backup support. His voice answers on the second ring.
"Where ya at, Boss?"
"Northbound on Flotskaya, approaching the marina access. We’re following a white-panel van."
"Copy. I can intercept at the next intersection, force them toward the main road," he responds.
But the conversation ends abruptly as our rear window explodes inward, safety glass showering the interior. The black sedan has closed distance, its passenger leaning out with a pistol while Timur accelerates for ramming speed.
"Down!" I shout, yanking the wheel left as the sedan's front bumper connects with our rear quarter panel.
Metal screams against metal, physics and violence combining to send us skidding toward the guardrail. I counter steer desperately, fighting momentum and gravity while debris sparks off asphalt.
Vera braces against the dashboard, face pale. I see grim acceptance scrawled on her face, that survival depends on staying focused through chaos.
The sedan backs off for another run, Timur's face visible through the windshield, grinning with predatory anticipation. He accelerates again, aiming for our driver's side door.
I floor the accelerator and try to pull ahead, but the car lacks power to outrun their pursuit. The sedan clips our bumper, sending us into a spin that transforms the world into a blur of concrete and sky.
We hit the guardrail backward, the impact crushing the rear seats and buckling the frame. For a moment, we balance on the edge between road and river, suspended above thirty feet of empty air.
Then gravity asserts control.
The car tears through weakened metal and drops toward the Klyazma, water rushing up to meet us with terminal velocity. I have perhaps three seconds to act before we hit.
"Deep breath!" I yell to Vera.
The impact drives consciousness from my skull in a burst of white noise and crushing pressure. Cold water explodes through the windshield, turning the passenger compartment into a death trap of rising liquid and failing electronics.
The car sinks with shocking speed, nose-first into river bottom mud. Dashboard lights flicker and die, leaving us in underwater twilight filtered through dirty windows.
I kick against my door, but water pressure holds it closed. The window cracks under repeated impacts from my elbow, spider-webbing but refusing to break completely.
Vera thrashes beside me, fighting her seatbelt constraints while water rises past her head. Her eyes show terror, but not a single bubble escapes her lips. She's panicked, and my chest hollows out as my future flashes before my eyes.
My child… the woman I clearly love even if I can't admit it…
I'm losing it all one second at a time. I'm paralyzed for a second as our eyes meet, as fear coils around my chest. She reaches out and grabs my arm, and all I want to do is take a breath, pull her into my arms, and say what I have never said to anyone my whole life.
But the icy chill of the water pinches down on my nerves and pulls me back from my fear-driven state.
I pull the knife from my boot and drive its butt through the passenger window. Glass fragments float away in slow motion, creating an exit barely wide enough for human passage. Then I turn and reach toward her with the knife, which easily slices through the stubborn seatbelt.
I grab Vera's hand and pull her through the opening.
We kick upward through green water, lungs burning, while the car disappears into deeper darkness below.
My coat drags like an anchor, so I shrug it off and let the current carry it away.
My gun is lost somewhere in the chaos, but Vera's hand is locked on mine and I'm not letting go.
We break the surface gasping, clinging to each other while water streams from our hair. Above us, the black sedan idles on the embankment, its occupants leaning over the broken guardrail.
A muzzle flash winks from the passenger window. The bullet snaps water two feet from Vera's head, close enough to spray her face with displaced river.
"Under!" I drag her down again, using the embankment's shadow to mask our movements.
We swim downstream, staying submerged as long as our lungs allow, surfacing only when unconsciousness threatens. The current carries us past concrete pylons and rusted industrial debris, natural cover that conceals our escape. Hypothermia threatens, but I push us harder.
Eventually, a collapsed culvert offers shelter and we crawl through the opening into a concrete tube filled with stagnant water and urban decay. It's not comfortable, but it’s invisible from the road above where Sonya's men are likely still stalking us.
Vera shivers against me, body heat leaching away through wet clothes. Shock and hypothermia make dangerous combinations, especially for pregnant women whose systems already operate under additional stress.
I cradle her face between my palms, searching her eyes. "Are you hurt?" My hands skim her shoulders and arms, checking for injuries I cannot see in the darkness.
She shakes her head, teeth chattering. "No. Cold, but not hurt." Her voice is steady despite the tremor in her body. Then her hand drifts protectively to her stomach. "The baby?"
I pull her closer, pressing my forehead to hers. "Too early to tell. We need medical attention, but not until we reach safety."
Her eyes flick toward the river mouth. "The van—did you see where it went?"
Through the culvert's mouth, I glimpse the river's far shore where a private dock extends into deeper water. A cabin cruiser sits moored there, engines running, while figures move cargo from vehicle to boat. I nod at them and her eyes follow my line of sight.
"Can we stop them?"
"Not alone. Not from here." I pull out my phone, grateful for waterproof casing that keeps electronics functional despite river immersion. "But we can call in support."
Rolan's number connects immediately, his voice cutting in before the second ring.
"What happened?"
I press the phone tight to my ear, watching Vera curl against the wall of the culvert, arms wrapped around herself for warmth. "Ambush on Flotskaya. Timur and a sedan forced us off the road. Car went into the river. We made it out, but barely."
There is a pause, and then his tone turns to cold steel in his tone. "And Vera?"
"She's alive. Shaken, freezing. We need extraction before hypothermia takes hold. They're moving money by boat right now. I can see the transfer happening from here."
Rolan exhales slowly. "Radich bastards think they can drown my blood… Timur will wish he died today."
"I can't engage alone," I tell him. My teeth chatter, but I keep my words as level as I can. "We need men. Weapons. Transport. If you want proof of their network, the dock is crawling with it. But if we wait too long, the cash sails out of Moscow."
"Hold your position," Rolan orders. "I'll divert a crew from the northern district. They'll come in heavy. Twenty minutes."
I glance at Vera—her lips blue, her body trembling hard. "We don't have twenty. We need warmth now. Somewhere to put her until your men arrive. Ro, Vera's pregnant."
There is another silence, and then Rolan speaks again, his voice softer but no less grim. "There's an old maintenance shack half a klick downstream, red door, rusted roof. Get her inside and cover the windows. My people will find you there."
"Understood."
"And, Uncle." His voice drops to a growl. "Keep yourself alive, get what you can from that dock, and make sure no one traces this back to me."
The line goes dead, leaving only the echo of threats and promises in my ear.