Chapter 25
Celia
T he apartment feels smaller than it looked from the outside, with generic furniture and beige walls suggesting government-issued temporary housing rather than someone’s home. Patricia Hendricks closes the door behind us and engages multiple locks quickly and with little trouble.
“Sit.” She gestures toward a small dining table while remaining standing herself. “Before we go any farther, I need to know exactly with whom I’m dealing.”
The tension in the room is thick enough to cut. Patricia stands with her back to the kitchen counter, holding her gun still semi-relaxed but obviously ready. Her posture radiates controlled alertness, the kind federal agents develop when they expect situations to turn dangerous without warning.
Yefrem settles into one of the chairs but keeps his hands visible on the table surface. “My name is Yefrem Kulikov. I’m what you’d call a Russian organized crime figure, though the reality is more complicated than that classification suggests.”
“More complicated how?”
“I didn’t choose this life initially. My father was connected to the St. Petersburg bratva , and after my parents were killed when I was fifteen, my brother and I had limited options for survival.
” Yefrem’s voice carries the flat tone he uses when discussing painful history.
“We came to America to work for people who had criminal connections.”
Patricia absorbs this information without visible reaction. “And Marcus Lang?”
He continues to sound dispassionate. “He tried to force my organization into partnerships we didn’t want.
When I refused to pay his extortion fees and use his trafficking routes, he arranged for the Belov family to hit my Vegas home.
” Yefrem glances toward Leonid, who nods confirmation.
“Several of my people died in that attack.”
Her eyes narrow. “So, you killed Lang in retaliation?”
“I killed Lang in self-defense when he broke into Celia’s home and tried to murder her.” The correction comes out sharp with controlled anger. “He was looking for evidence he could use to incriminate me.”
Patricia processes this information, glancing between Yefrem and me as if trying to reconcile the criminal she’s been told about with the man sitting calmly at her table. Whatever she expected, it probably wasn’t this level of candor about illegal activities. “What evidence?”
“I’m not giving you evidence against me,” says Yefrem with a hint of dryness. “However, we have evidence to support everything we’re claiming.”
Leonid opens his laptop and turns it toward Patricia before she can ask. “We have financial records, photographs, and communication intercepts. We’ve spent months investigating Bureau corruption with the plan to expose them to ensure our safety, and it’s all documented and cross-referenced.”
Patricia leans forward to study the screen, her expression shifting as she recognizes names and faces. “Some of these agents are in my office.”
“Torres, Sullivan, and Kim.” Yefrem lists the names we’ve confirmed through surveillance. “They’re all taking regular payments from criminal organizations in exchange for case information and evidence tampering.”
“David Kim is dead.” Patricia looks up from the laptop. “Shot yesterday during what was reported as a gang-related incident.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “A gang-related incident in a national forest in Washington state? Yeah, right.”
She frowns at me, but Yefrem speaks before she does. “Kim tried to kill Celia during a meeting with one of our sources. We defended ourselves.”
The admission hovers between us. Patricia stares at Yefrem for several long moments, clearly processing what he’s just confessed. By any legal standard, he’s admitted to murder, regardless of the circumstances. “You realize I’m supposed to arrest you?”
“Yes, but you also realize that arresting me won’t solve the problem of corrupt agents planning to murder you?” Yefrem leans back in his chair. “The question is whether you want to be morally pure or whether you want to be alive.”
Patricia’s phone buzzes with an incoming message. She checks it quickly, then looks toward the door. “I asked someone to join us. A federal prosecutor I trust completely.”
“Who?”
“Rufus Lipsey. He’s been investigating Bureau corruption from the prosecutor’s side, trying to understand why so many federal cases have been falling apart.” She moves toward the door. “If anyone can help us navigate the legal aspects of this situation, it’s him.”
Something about her movement toward the door triggers alarm bells in my mind. The timing feels wrong. My instincts are screaming, though I can’t tell what they’re saying.
“Wait.” I stand up from my chair. “How did he know where to find us?”
“I called him after I got home from the studio.” Patricia’s hand is already on the door handle. “He’s been waiting for a break in his investigation.”
“Patricia, don’t.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but the feeling that something is wrong intensifies with each second.
Yefrem rises from his chair, his hand moving toward his concealed weapon. “Step away from the door.”
“What are you talking about? This is Rufus Lipsey, someone I’ve worked with for years.” She’s eyeing him warily now.
The doorbell rings, followed by a voice calling through the door. “Patricia, it’s Rufus. Open up.”
She frowns, looking uncertain. “He sounds… off.”
“Patricia, step back from the door.” Yefrem’s voice carries the kind of authority that comes from years of life-or-death decision making.
She hesitates, hand still on the door handle, clearly torn between trusting her longtime colleague and listening to warnings from people she barely knows. “You’re being paranoid.”
“Maybe, but paranoid people live longer.” Yefrem moves toward her. “Please, just step away from the door.”
I watch her face as she weighs the decision. Years of federal training telling her to trust established relationships and procedures against instinct that something feels wrong about this entire situation. The decision gets made for her when bullets tear through the door.
Wood splinters explode inward as automatic weapon fire shreds the door and frame. Patricia stumbles backward, pieces of debris cutting her face and arms. If she had opened that door, she would be dead now.
Yefrem tackles her to the floor, covering her body with his own as more rounds punch through the walls above us. Plaster dust fills the air, and I hear shouting from outside the apartment.
“Stay down!” Leonid has his weapon drawn, positioning himself to cover the destroyed doorway. “There are multiple shooters with automatic weapons.”
I crawl toward the kitchen area, looking for cover behind the refrigerator while struggling to extract the Glock on my hip. This was a trap, but not the kind we expected. Someone knew about this meeting and sent killers instead of prosecutors.
“Torres is among them,” Yefrem shouts over the gunfire. “I can hear his voice outside.”
Agent Torres, the corrupt FBI agent we’ve been tracking for weeks. Somehow, he knew about this meeting, knew Patricia would be here, and decided to eliminate all of us at once. He’s probably been surveilling her just to cover his bases.
More gunfire erupts from outside the building, but they’re different weapons now.
Single shots, precisely placed, suggesting disciplined marksmen rather than spray-and-pray tactics.
They must be Yefrem’s backup team of three engaging the corrupt agents.
The shots fall silent too quickly, making me fear for the men’s safety.
After a cessation in firing, I stiffen as someone shouts, “Federal agents! Drop your weapons!” The voice comes from the hallway outside the apartment and is different from Torres’ but carries the same authoritative tone.
But which federal agents? Clean ones responding to reports of gunfire, or more corrupt ones sent to finish what Torres started?
Patricia raises her head from the floor, trickling blood from cuts on her face. “That’s Lipsey. The real Lipsey.”
“How can you be sure?” asks Yefrem
She sounds confident. “Because I’ve known him for eight years, and that’s his voice.”
The gunfire outside intensifies then gradually diminishes. The hallway fills with shouts of orders being given, accompanied by the sounds of people moving with tactical precision. Either clean agents have arrived, or we’re about to be overrun by more corrupt ones.
“Patricia, are you alive?” The voice in the hallway is clearer now, and her face shows recognition.
“In here,” she calls back. “I have three civilians with me. They’re armed but not hostile.”
“Coming in. Don’t shoot.”
The remains of the door swing open, and a tall man in a dark suit steps through with his hands visible. Behind him, tactical agents in FBI gear sweep the apartment for additional threats. “Jesus, Patricia. What happened here?”
“Someone tried to kill me. These people saved my life.” She struggles to her feet with Yefrem’s assistance, still shaking from the adrenaline of nearly being murdered.
More agents enter the apartment, and I count at least six in tactical gear plus the prosecutor. Some move toward Yefrem and Leonid with weapons drawn, while others secure the perimeter and document the scene.
“Ma’am, we need you to step away from the suspects.” One of the tactical agents addresses Patricia while keeping his weapon trained on Yefrem.
“They’re not suspects, they’re witnesses, and they saved my life.”
The chaos of the scene makes everything happen too fast. Agents swarm through the apartment, some checking for additional threats while others begin securing anyone who was present during the shooting.
In the confusion of multiple people shouting orders and the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air, I watch in horror as they move to handcuff both Yefrem and the surviving corrupt agents who came with Torres.
“Wait.” I lunge forward, but Leonid’s hand catches my arm, pulling me back with surprising gentleness.