Chapter 24 Kazimir
Kazimir
I’m standing over a titanium rib assembly when the argument finally resolves itself.
The tolerances are perfect on paper, but paper does not account for heat shear at altitude, or the way stress migrates when an aircraft is pushed past what it was meant to endure.
I trace the line with my finger, slow and deliberate, while my design lead waits, tablet hugged to his chest like a shield.
Around us, the headquarters hums with quiet industry, a surprisingly legitimate cover for my underground operations.
“Change the lattice,” I say at last. “Micro-triangulation along the spine. It will add three pounds, but it will survive a hard climb and an emergency descent without warping.”
He blinks, then nods quickly, already adjusting the model. No one ever expects the street kid from Prague to actually know about manufacturing aircraft. “That’ll increase lifespan by—”
“Twenty-two percent,” I finish. “And make the maintenance schedule attractive enough that the government stops pretending they don’t want it.”
A few of them smile at that, the nervous kind that comes from working for a man whose ambitions are never small.
Baranov Tech has contracts across three continents, but Savannah is the heart of it.
It’s the place where the future gets shaped by hand before it ever sees a runway.
My uncle started small, with a private aircraft company that catered to billionaires like himself, looking to hide secrets and do business several thousand miles in the air.
But I restructured it this way on purpose.
If I am going to control my own fleet and rely on it, then I need to know every bolt, every weakness, every advantage.
I dismiss the team with a nod and turn toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the private airstrip. One of my jets sits on the tarmac, sleek and newly modified, its silhouette unmistakable. Power made visible. Control made real.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I already know it is not good news. Liev’s team has recently caught me up on the things I’ve been purposely avoiding.
I answer without looking at the screen. “Speak.”
“Hinto’s people are moving,” one of my men says. “We’ve got eyes on the off-base hangar, the one south of the city. They’re not subtle about it. Looks like sabotage, boss.”
My jaw tightens, and something cold and familiar settles into my chest. When I was in my twenties, my uncle went to war with another man from Moscow who meant to take over our business from the inside. This is what it felt like.
“How many?”
“Four confirmed. Maybe more on overwatch.”
I glance once more at the jet outside, then turn away from the glass. “Hold position. Do not engage.”
A pause. “Boss, we can handle—”
I end the call abruptly. It seems that someone needs to be reminded that I built this kingdom with my own two hands. I’ve been directing from the shadows for too long.
There are things you delegate, and things you handle yourself. Hinto has made it clear which category this falls into.
The ride south is quiet; the kind of silence that sharpens instead of soothes.
Nika sits in the passenger seat, eyes forward, expression unreadable, while several vehicles follow behind.
We’re completely conspicuous and those who know what Baranov Tech gets up to in the shadows step into buildings quickly and stay out of the way.
The hangar comes into view, floodlights cutting harsh lines across the concrete.
SUVs roar across the cracked concrete, tires screaming as they cut hard angles, engines still running as doors are thrown open.
Street bikes skid in sideways, riders already dismounting with weapons up, the air filling with the sharp percussion of boots hitting ground and metal being racked with practiced speed.
Twelve of us fan out instinctively, a living machine honed by years of working together, each man knowing where to be without a word exchanged.
I spot them immediately.
Hinto’s men are smart enough to know better, which makes their presence an insult. One man is crouched near the fuel line, hands busy with something small and precise, while another keeps watch by the door, cigarette glowing briefly before disappearing.
They think they have time.
They do not.
I step out of the vehicle and walk toward them openly, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The lookout turns first, eyes widening, his hand moving too slowly toward his waistband.
There are seven of them inside the hangar, spread too comfortably, tools and equipment laid out in a way that assumes privacy and time.
That assumption costs them everything. The lookout opens his mouth to shout and the first shot drops him before his fingers close around the grip.
The sound ricochets through the hangar, sharp and final.
The others scatter, shouting, tools clattering to the ground.
The first shots tear through the space like lightning, deafening and immediate, glass shattering, sparks flying as rounds hit steel. One man goes down before he even turns, another spins and collapses against the wing of the aircraft with a wet sound.
They recover fast; I’ll give them that. Hinto doesn’t recruit amateurs.
I cross the distance in seconds and drive the first man into the fuselage with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. The detonator skids across the concrete. I kick it away without looking, then bring my elbow down hard enough to feel bone give.
He crumples, sobbing, and I crouch in front of him, leveling the gun at his forehead. Around me, my men hunt down the others ruthlessly. Shots ring out; not shouting. They’re as silent as ghouls slipping out of nightmares.
Someone screams my name.
I turn just in time to see one of mine hit the ground hard, blood pooling too fast, too dark.
Another follows moments later, caught by a burst of automatic fire that tears through him before anyone can react.
The losses land like blunt force trauma to my chest, but there is no time to stop.
There will be time later to make someone pay.
The fight tightens, brutal and close. Steel meets steel.
A knife flashes and disappears. I feel the impact before I hear the shot, a hot, punishing force slamming into my side that knocks the breath from my lungs.
I stagger but stay upright, teeth bared, returning fire until the man responsible drops with a surprised look on his face.
Five of Hinto’s men are dead by the time the last one tries to run.
That’s when I see her.
She is fast, slipping through the periphery of the fight like she knows exactly where not to be.
A woman, younger than I expect, hair pulled back, eyes sharp and assessing even as she moves.
For a split second our gazes meet, recognition flaring there, something calculating and dangerous.
She’s familiar in a way I can’t place—I’m sure I don’t know her.
Nika shouts a warning, but she’s already gone, disappearing into the shadows beyond the hangar before anyone can give chase.
I file her away even as pain blooms hotter in my side, spreading with every heartbeat.
Two of Hinto’s men are alive. Barely.
They’re dragged forward, forced to their knees on the oil-slicked concrete, faces pale, eyes darting between me and the bodies around them. I stand over them, blood soaking my shirt, the taste of copper thick in my mouth. My vision swims at the edges, but I keep my voice steady.
“You’re going to tell me everything,” I say quietly.
One of them starts to speak, words tumbling over each other, desperate and incoherent. The other stays silent, jaw set, defiant in a way that suggests he thinks this is room for negotiation.
There isn’t.
I raise my gun and shoot the silent one in the head.
The sound is sharp. His body collapsing sideways in a heap. The remaining man screams, the sound tearing out of him as he tries to scramble backward, hands slick with blood.
“Now,” I say, leveling the weapon at his face again. “You.”
He talks.
He talks until he’s sobbing, until his voice breaks, until he’s given up more than he realizes. I listen, committing every detail to memory, every weakness, every pattern.
“—told us no one would be here, that you were at some kind of gathering on a yacht—”
The realization that breaks across his features is almost heartbreaking. Hinto is a cold man; he sent this group here to smoke me out, to assess how deadly and efficient we actually are. To find out if he can take us man to man, or if he needs to find another way.
And this one is a corpse, but doesn’t know it yet. He has only just put the pieces together. When he finishes, there is nothing left in him but terror.
I turn away, leaving one of my men to end his life. It’s not enough to make up for our brothers who have died here tonight. But I’m already starting a list of those who are going to pay.
I look around the hangar, cataloging the damage, calculating repairs, contingencies, and consequences. Hinto wanted to see how close he could get. He wanted to remind me that nothing I own is untouchable. These men didn’t realize they were a sacrifice to gauge how far their boss could push me.
I allow myself a thin smile.
He has reminded me of something else.
This is my city. My air. My machines.
The world tilts violently as soon as my back is turned. I make it three steps before my knees threaten to buckle. The pain overwhelms the adrenaline that’s been holding me upright. Nika is there instantly, hands steadying me, his face tight with concern he’s trying to hide.
“Boss,” he says low. “You’re hit bad.”
I nod once, unable to speak, and let them guide me behind one of the SUVs. The concrete feels too close, and the sky feels too far away. Someone presses a hand to my side, applying pressure, voices overlapping as they coordinate extraction.
As they lift me, the edges of the world blur, and darkness creeps in despite my efforts to stay present. I force my eyes open, focusing on anything to anchor myself.
Aly’s face comes to me unbidden, the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching. The warmth of her body against mine, the sound of her breathing when she sleeps.
Not yet.
I cling to consciousness with everything I have, because I am not finished, there is still a war to win. There is a woman waiting for me who doesn’t yet know how much of my blood I am willing to spill to keep her safe.