Chapter 28 – Timofey
I burst into the room.
The door slams against the wall so hard it cracks.
My eyes scan everything at once—fast, precise, brutal in how quickly they process what matters and discard what doesn’t.
Bed.
Floor.
Gun.
Window.
Shattered.
The cold air pouring in through it hits my face like confirmation before my mind even fully catches up.
She’s gone.
For a moment, everything stops.
No sound. No movement. No thought.
Just a single, hollow silence that stretches too far.
Then—
Rage detonates.
Not controlled. Not measured.
Violent. Immediate. Absolute.
I grab the nearest thing within reach—a chair—and hurl it across the room. It slams into the wall and splinters on impact.
My chest heaves once—then again—before I drive my fist straight into the edge of the dresser. The wood cracks under the force, pain shooting up my arm, but I barely feel it.
“FUCK!”
The roar tears out of me, raw and unrestrained.
Another hit, this time the wall. Plaster fractures beneath my knuckles. Dust scatters into the air.
The guards at the door don’t move.
They don’t speak.
They just watch—frozen—because they’ve never seen me like this.
Not out of control.
But I’m not thinking about them.
I’m thinking about one thing.
Anton.
He was never outside.
He played me.
Used the entire assault—every bullet, every man, every explosion—to pull me away from the only place that mattered.
From her.
My breathing turns heavier, slower. Far more dangerous.
I step toward the broken window, stopping just short of it, staring out into the chaos below. The rope still hangs there. Swaying slightly. Mocking.
He came in.
And he walked out.
With her.
My jaw tightens so hard it aches.
“You think you’ve won,” I say under my breath.
A slow inhale.
Then I turn.
Every trace of that explosive rage compresses into something sharper. Focused. Deadly.
“No.” My voice is quieter now, but far worse. “I will fucking end you!”
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
“We’ll find her.” Lukyan’s voice cuts in, steady but firm. “Let’s regroup.”
For a second, I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t react. I just stand there with the shattered window behind me and the entire estate still burning in fragments of chaos outside.
I want to throw him off me. I want to keep moving. I want blood on my hands now.
But he’s right.
And I hate that he’s right.
I force it down. The rage. The impulse. The need to tear the world apart with my bare hands until I get her back. I compress it.
Emotion later.
War now.
I turn my head slightly toward Lukyan. My voice is low. Dangerous in its calm.
“Check that fucking laptop,” I say. “Every channel. Every trace. I want to know where he took her.”
Lukyan nods once, already moving. “I’m on it.”
I look past him to Misha.
“Gather the men,” I order. “We’re going for a raid.”
“Understood.” He disappears immediately. No hesitation. No questions.
Lukyan exhales sharply behind me. “Timofey, we need a plan.”
I turn on him instantly.
“This is my plan,” I growl. “I’m going out there, and I’m finding her.”
The silence that follows is brief—but heavy. Lukyan doesn’t argue again. He knows better than to try to stop what’s already been set in motion.
Within minutes, the entire estate shifts again.
What was defense becomes pursuit. What was containment becomes extraction. Every available man is mobilized, every channel opened, every asset activated.
A city-wide manhunt ignites.
One hour later, I’m already in motion again.
No waiting. No hesitation. No time wasted on theory or planning that doesn’t translate into results fast enough.
The convoy cuts through the city hard and fast, engines low but aggressive, tires biting into wet asphalt as we approach the first confirmed location.
Anton’s warehouse.
Industrial sector. Abandoned on paper. Not abandoned in reality.
I step out before the vehicle even comes to a full stop. Misha and Lukyan fall in beside me immediately. The rest of the team fans out in formation—tight, controlled, ready.
“Breaching,” Misha confirms.
I don’t respond. I’m already moving.
The doors go down in seconds. Metal buckles under the charge. The interior is dark, stale, wrong in that unmistakable way of a place recently emptied too quickly.
We flood inside.
Flashlights cut through the dust-filled air. Weapons raised. Every corner cleared in seconds. Fast, precise, efficient.
But as I move deeper in, I already feel it.
No resistance.
No traps.
No presence.
Just evidence.
Empty weapon crates stacked along the far wall. Burned documents in a metal bin. A few monitors still flickering faintly with static before dying out completely.
I stop in the center of the warehouse.
Silence settles around us. Heavy. Absolute.
Misha scans the perimeter. “No movement inside.”
I already know before he finishes speaking.
He’s not here.
My jaw tightens once. Controlled. Contained—but only barely.
I step closer to the nearest crate, kicking it hard enough to send it skidding across the floor.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
Misha lets out a breath behind me. “He knew we’d hit this first.”
I turn slowly toward him. “Let’s move.”
There’s no time to waste on frustration. No space for it. I shove it down and replace it with movement—sharp, deliberate, forward.
We hit the next location within minutes.
Another warehouse. Same pattern. Same silence waiting inside it like a trap that never fully closed.
“Clear it,” I order.
My men move in instantly. Doors breached. Entry secured. Flashlights slicing through darkness. Weapons raised. Every angle checked in seconds.
Nothing.
No bodies. No movement. No Anton.
Only signs that he was there—and left before we arrived.
We don’t stop. We don’t pause. We don’t regroup long enough for doubt to take root.
Safe house after safe house.
Abandoned factory.
Old logistics hub.
Two more warehouses near the river district.
Each one the same.
Empty.
Controlled.
Prepared.
Abandoned just in time.
Like he’s always one step ahead of us—always just far enough to stay out of reach.
The frustration builds slowly now. Not explosive like before. Worse than that. Controlled. Heavy. Focused into something that sharpens everything it touches.
By the time we clear the fourth location, I already know what I don’t want to admit out loud.
This isn’t a search.
It’s a loop.
A system.
And we’re running inside it.
Misha walks up beside me as we exit the latest site, shaking his head once. “Nothing again.”
I don’t respond immediately. My eyes stay forward, scanning the city like it’s going to give up something different if I look long enough.
It doesn’t.
My phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out fast.
Lukyan.
I answer immediately, irritation already in my voice.
“Yes?”
“Come back to the house,” he says, urgent. “Found something.”
Then the line cuts.
No explanation. No detail. Just that.
I don’t waste a second. I’m already moving before the call fully ends, getting into the car as the door opens and slams shut behind me.
The drive back feels too long for how fast we’re going. Every red light, every turn, every second wasted feels heavier than it should.
When I get back to the house, I don’t slow down. I head straight to my office.
Lukyan is already there. Standing. Waiting. Matteo’s laptop is open in his hands. His expression is different now—focused, but sharper. He’s seen something.
I don’t even take my coat off.
“What is it?” I ask immediately.
He looks up at me.
“This just came in,” he says.
He turns the laptop toward me. A stream of intercepted intelligence, mapped routes, encrypted movement data—already decoded enough to be clear.
Anton’s convoy.
Crossing the border. Hours ago.
My eyes lock onto the screen.
Destination confirmed.
Moscow.
For a moment, everything goes still.
Then I nod once.
“Good,” I say. “I’m going to Moscow.”
Lukyan exhales sharply, like he expected this but still hoped it wouldn’t happen this fast. “Relax,” he says. “We need a plan first.”
That’s when I snap.
“No time,” I cut in, voice rising. “There’s no time to plan. We move now.”
I step closer, my control thinning but still intact enough to make every word land.
“They have Valeria,” I say, lower now—but sharper. “She’s pregnant. Every second we waste puts her at risk.”
Lukyan holds my gaze for a moment longer, then nods once.
“I’ll come with you,” he says.
That steadies something in me just enough to keep me from breaking forward blindly.
I nod stiffly.
Then I turn.
There’s no hesitation after that. No lingering. No second-guessing. The decision has already been made, and everything else becomes execution.
I don’t speak much after that. I don’t need to.
Within the hour, the best of my men are assembled fast. Weapons secured. Intel packed. Communications hardened.
Lukyan is already coordinating routes. Misha is managing transport. No one asks unnecessary questions anymore. Not now. Not with the way my voice sounds when I give orders.
The private jet is waiting.
Engines running low. Lights dimmed against the night.
We move through security like a single unit, boarding quickly. No ceremony. No pause. Just purpose.
Inside, the cabin is quiet. Tense in a way that doesn’t need words to define it. Men take their seats, checking gear, loading final intel streams onto encrypted devices. Lukyan sits across from me, already reviewing Moscow grid overlays on a tablet.
The engines grow louder as the jet prepares for takeoff. The city outside the windows feels distant already, like something being left behind too slowly for what’s coming next.
I sit back in my seat, eyes forward, jaw tight. The calm I’ve forced into myself doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like pressure. Contained force waiting for release.
Anton wanted control.
He wanted fear.
He wanted leverage.
Fine.
I exhale once, slow and controlled.
If he wants Moscow to become a battlefield, I’ll turn it into one he can’t walk away from.
The jet accelerates down the runway.
And we leave the ground behind.