20. Maksim
MAKSIM
G risha's message appears on my phone while I'm reviewing surveillance reports at my desk.
It appears briefly before the screen goes dark, and I glance at it long enough to see his name, but not long enough to really let it register.
A few seconds later, it hits my brain what the first few words said.
I swipe to unlock the phone and my heart leaps into my throat.
I read the message twice before the words fully register. Zoya has been taken, and the professional nature of the operation tells me everything I need to know about who's responsible.
I call Grisha immediately, and he answers before the first ring finishes. "How long has she been missing?"
"Three hours, maybe four. I found witnesses who saw the grab happen. There were two men, professional work. They knew exactly where to find her."
The coldness that settles in my chest is familiar, the same feeling I get before walking into a situation where people are going to die. "Karpin?"
"Has to be. A van was stolen this morning from a lot in Izmailovo, and the license plates were swapped out with clean ones."
I end the call and speed-dial Rolan, who answers on the second ring with his usual clipped greeting. "I need every available man," I growl as I start moving toward the door to my office. "Zoya's been taken."
"How many do you need?"
"All of them."
There's a pause on the other end, and I can hear him considering the implications of pulling every soldier from their current assignments. "Maksim?—"
"All of them, Rolan. This isn't a request."
He doesn't argue because he knows that tone in my voice, and now that Zoya isn't just an asset—she's my wife—it means she's family. This is no different than if Renat or Misha were taken. We have to get her back and he knows it.
Within twenty minutes, I have fifteen soldiers assembling at the estate while Grisha arrives with his laptop and surveillance equipment. We spread city maps across the dining room table, and I can feel the familiar focus settling over my men as they prepare for violence.
"Start with traffic cameras," I order Grisha. "Follow the van from the pharmacy, and I want to know where it went."
His fingers move across the keyboard at lightning speed, pulling up feeds from across the city. "Got it. They headed east on Sokolnicheskaya, then south toward the industrial district."
I study the map while he works, noting the shift in territory as the route moves deeper into areas controlled by Karpin interests. The industrial district is perfect for holding someone without interference—abandoned warehouses, empty lots, and minimal police presence.
"Pull footage from every camera along that route," I tell him. "I want to know exactly where they took her."
The next hour passes in focused preparation as my men check weapons and vehicles while Grisha tracks the van through the city's surveillance network.
The digital trail leads us through twelve different camera feeds before ending at a warehouse complex near the river, where the van enters the compound and doesn't emerge.
"There." Grisha points to his screen, showing me the final footage. "The van enters the compound at 4:20 and doesn't come out."
I lean over his shoulder to study the warehouse complex.
The building is old and rundown, surrounded by a chain-link fence that's seen better days.
Two other vehicles sit in the parking lot, both registered to shell companies that trace back to Karpin interests through a maze of paperwork designed to hide ownership.
"How many men inside?" I ask.
"Unknown, but the building has multiple exits and good sight lines. They'll see us coming long before we reach the main entrance."
"Then we go fast and hard before they can react."
I load two magazines and check my rifle to make sure it's fully loaded and ready. Around me, my men do the same with the quiet professionalism of soldiers who have worked together for years. These are men I trust with my life, men who understand how to move as a unit when violence is necessary.
"Grisha, take point on the south entrance. Vadim, cover the north. I want every exit blocked before we move on the main building."
We reach the warehouse complex as the sun sets behind the industrial skyline. The building sits dark against the sky, its windows broken and boarded over with sheets of plywood. The parking lot is empty except for the two vehicles Grisha identified in the surveillance footage.
I position my men around the perimeter and wait for their signals through our radio system. One by one, they confirm their positions with brief, professional reports. When everyone is ready, I key my mic and give the order they've been waiting for.
"Move."
We hit the main entrance with overwhelming force, the door exploding inward under the impact of a ram.
My men pour into the building in a coordinated wave, and gunfire erupts immediately as muzzle flashes light up the darkness.
Bullets whine off concrete walls and support pillars while I drop to one knee behind cover and return fire.
Two men fall in the first exchange, but more are shooting from the catwalks above us. The warehouse echoes with the sound of automatic weapons, and I can hear my men moving through the space with calm voices over the radio as they clear sections of the building.
I advance through the maze of abandoned equipment with my rifle ready, stepping over the body of a man who made the mistake of trying to ambush me from behind a stack of pallets.
More gunfire comes from the left side of the building, but it's sporadic now as we systematically eliminate the resistance.
"Building is secure," Vadim reports over the radio. "No more resistance."
I move toward the back corner where Grisha indicated the van had stopped, finding a corridor that leads to several smaller rooms with heavy steel doors. I check each one systematically, shooting the locks apart when they don't open to my touch.
The third door is locked, and I put two rounds into the mechanism before kicking it open. Zoya sits in a metal chair with her head down, wearing a thin gray dress I don't recognize. Her feet are bare, and a camera blinks in the corner with its red light still recording.
"Zoya."
She looks up with unfocused eyes that take a moment to recognize me. "Maksim?"
"I'm here." I cross the room and lift her from the chair, surprised by how light she feels in my arms. Her skin is cold to the touch, and I can feel her trembling against my chest.
"I knew you'd come," she whispers, and the trust in her voice makes my chest tighten.
I carry her toward the door, but the smell of smoke stops me before we reach the corridor. Gray wisps drift down the hallway, and I can hear the crackle of flames somewhere deeper in the building.
"Grisha!"
"Fire in the main warehouse." His voice crackles over the radio. "Building's compromised. We need to move now."
I adjust Zoya in my arms and run toward the exit as the smoke gets thicker with each step. I can feel heat from the flames behind us, and something explodes in the distance—probably fuel drums or electrical equipment catching fire.
The corridor fills with smoke that burns my lungs and makes my eyes water. I pull my jacket over Zoya's face and push forward, knowing that the exit is twenty meters ahead but barely able to see through the gray haze.
"This way." Grisha appears beside me with his rifle slung across his back. "I'll cover you."
We move together through the burning building while more explosions echo behind us. The building shudders under the impact, and pieces of debris fall from the ceiling as the structure begins to fail. I duck and keep moving with my focus entirely on reaching the door.
Fresh air hits my face as we burst out of the building, and I carry Zoya to the waiting cars where Vadim has the engine running. The warehouse behind us is fully engulfed now, with flames shooting through the roof and lighting up the night sky.
"Hospital," I tell Vadim as I slide into the back seat with Zoya still in my arms.
"No," Grisha says from the front passenger seat. "It's too dangerous. They'll try again."
He's right about the hospital being too public and too exposed for someone the Karpin faction wants dead. "The estate. Get Valya."
Vadim drives fast through the city streets while I hold Zoya in the back seat, monitoring her shallow breathing and weak pulse. She hasn't opened her eyes since we left the warehouse, and soot stains her face while her body remains limp against mine.
"Stay with me," I murmur, but she doesn't respond.
We reach the estate in twenty minutes, and Valya is waiting in the main house with her medical bag ready. She's been treating Bratva injuries for fifteen years, and she knows how to keep quiet about what she sees while providing the kind of care that hospitals ask too many questions about.
"Smoke inhalation," I tell her as I carry Zoya to the guest room. "She was unconscious when we found her."
Valya nods and begins her examination carefully with gloved hands and a stern expression. "Everyone out. I need space to work."
I want to stay and watch over Zoya, but I know better than to argue with Valya when she's working. I leave the room and close the door behind me, then begin pacing the hallway with restless energy.
Rolan appears with a glass of vodka, but I wave him away because I can't drink or sit still while the woman I love fights for her life on the other side of that door. The realization of what she means to me hits with devastating clarity now that I might lose her.
My men report in one by one with the aftermath of the operation. No casualties on our side, five dead among the Karpin soldiers, and the warehouse completely destroyed. We recovered the camera equipment and several phones that might contain useful information about their operations.
I don't care about any of it because all I can think about is Zoya.
An hour passes, then two, while I pace the hallway and listen to the quiet sounds of Valya working through the closed door. Medical equipment beeping, the rustle of sheets, whispered instructions to herself as she monitors Zoya's condition.
Valya emerges from the room with a serious expression, closing the door carefully behind her before she looks at me. "There's a complication," she says.
My stomach drops, and I prepare myself for the worst possible news. "What kind of complication?"
"She's pregnant. About five weeks, I'd estimate. The smoke inhalation stressed her system, and her vitals aren't stable. I'm worried about both her and the baby."
The words feel crippling, making my legs feel weak. Pregnant with my child, and I might lose both of them because of the war I've been fighting. The possibility floods through me with devastating clarity.
"Will she be okay?"
"I don't know. The next few hours are critical. Her oxygen levels are improving, but slowly, and the stress on her body from the smoke and the kidnapping..." Valya shakes her head. "I'm doing everything I can."
She returns to the room, leaving me alone in the hallway with the knowledge that I might lose everything that has come to mean the world to me. Five weeks pregnant means she's been carrying my child since before we were even married, since before I fully understood what she meant to me.
I think about the men who took her, who locked her in that room and left her to die in the fire that was meant to kill us both.
Karpin ordered this operation, used her as bait to draw me out and eliminate a problem.
But it was Damir who made her a target in the first place with his drugs and his choices and his betrayal of the family.
Both of them will pay for this, but right now, all I can do is wait and pray that the two people who have become my entire world survive the night.
I slide down the wall and sit on the floor outside her door, where I can hear the quiet sounds of Valya working and know that I'm as close to them as I can be.
The estate is quiet around me, my men keeping their distance because they know better than to disturb me when I'm this close to the edge. Through the door, I focus on those medical sounds and try not to think about what I'll do if I lose them both.
I'm not going anywhere until I know they're safe, until I can see Zoya's eyes open and know that she's going to be okay. Until then, I wait.