Chapter 2 – Maxim
The anonymous tip arrived on a Tuesday morning, clean and precise as a blade between the ribs. No frills, no bullshit, just a name and enough evidence to make my blood sing with anticipation.
William Beaumont.
The bastard who’d orchestrated Prague. The puppet master who’d pulled the strings while good men bled out on concrete floors. The architect of betrayal, who thought he could hide behind his American empire and pretend the Bratva had forgotten.
He was wrong.
I stared at the documents spread across my desk, rain drumming against the windows of my Chicago office like bullets against steel. Six years I’d waited for this moment. Six fucking years of planning, hunting, following cold trails that led nowhere. And now, finally, I had a name.
The scar beneath my right eye throbbed, that familiar ache that reminded me every morning why I existed. Prague had carved more than flesh that night. It had carved purpose into my soul, etched revenge into my bones until it became the only thing that mattered.
I pressed the intercom button. “Cassandra, my office. Now.”
She appeared within thirty seconds, efficient as always.
Twenty-one years old but sharp enough to cut glass, with those calculating eyes that missed nothing.
Rafael had found her in a Seattle dive bar, pouring drinks and dodging groping hands.
He’d seen potential in her desperation, turned it into loyalty that ran deeper than blood.
“You called?” She stood in the doorway, tablet in hand, ready for whatever hell I was about to unleash.
“William Beaumont.” I slid the documents across my desk. “I want everything. Every breath he’s taken, every dollar he’s earned, every secret he thinks he’s buried. No mercy, no gray areas. I want to know what he ate for breakfast twenty years ago.”
Cassandra picked up the papers, her dark eyes scanning the information with mechanical precision. “Timeline?”
“Two days.”
“That’s tight for a deep dive.”
“Then don’t sleep.” I leaned back in my chair, watching her process the request. She never questioned orders, never asked for explanations. That was what made her valuable. “This isn’t a research project, Cassandra. This is war preparation.”
“Understood.” She turned to leave, then paused. “Anything specific you’re looking for?”
“Weaknesses. Pressure points. Places where a man like William Beaumont might bleed if you knew exactly where to cut.”
She nodded and disappeared, leaving me alone with my rage and the sound of rain against glass. Six years of waiting, and now the hunt was finally beginning.
***
The file arrived exactly forty-eight hours later, thick as a phone book and twice as damning. Cassandra had outdone herself, digging through layers of corporate bullshit and political connections to expose the man underneath.
William Beaumont. Construction tycoon. Fifty-eight years old, built his empire from nothing through sheer fucking brutality and political cunning.
His company had tentacles reaching into every major project in Chicago, every political campaign that mattered, every judge who needed their palms greased.
But that wasn’t the interesting part.
The interesting part was how clean he looked on paper.
Too clean. The kind of cleanliness that screamed money laundering and political protection.
He’d learned to hide his dirt behind legitimate business ventures, using construction projects to move money that couldn’t be traced through normal channels.
Smart bastard. But not smart enough.
I flipped through pages of financial records, political connections, and personal information until I found what I was looking for. Family. The soft spots where even the hardest men became vulnerable.
Ruth Beaumont, wife of twenty-five years. Former socialite, now professional trophy wife. Predictable and useless for my purposes.
But then there was the daughter.
Eleanor Grace Beaumont. Twenty-one years old, chestnut hair, hazel eyes, and completely fucking innocent of her father’s crimes.
She ran some fancy fashion company, designed clothes for rich bitches who had more money than sense.
Independent, successful, living her own life separate from Daddy’s empire.
Perfect.
I studied her photograph, memorizing every detail. She had her father’s eyes, but softer, lacking the cold calculation that made William Beaumont dangerous. There was something almost naive about her smile, like she still believed the world was fundamentally good.
She was about to learn differently.
“Sir?” Cassandra’s voice came through the intercom.
“Come in.”
She entered carrying fresh coffee and wearing that expression that meant she had opinions about my plans. “I’ve been thinking about the Beaumont situation.”
“Have you now?”
“Maybe we should wait for Rafael to return from Vegas. Get his input before we move.”
I set down the photograph and looked at her directly. “Rafael is off-grid, drinking bourbon by a pool with his wife and kids. He’s earned his vacation. This doesn’t require committee approval.”
“This is big, Maxim. The kind of move that changes everything. Maybe—”
“Maybe nothing.” I stood up, the decision crystallizing in my mind like ice forming on water. “I’ve waited six years for this moment. I’m not waiting another fucking day.”
She nodded, recognizing the finality in my voice. “What do you need?”
“Lev. Tell him we’re going hunting tonight.”
***
The weather was cooperating beautifully.
Rain had been falling since noon, turning Chicago’s streets into rivers of gray water and making visibility shit.
Perfect conditions for what I had planned.
Empty streets, blurry security cameras, and the kind of weather that made people hurry indoors instead of lingering on sidewalks.
I pulled on my black jacket and checked my weapons. Makarov in the shoulder holster, backup piece tucked against my ankle, knife in my boot. Standard loadout for a job that required precision over firepower.
My phone buzzed. Lev.
“Ready when you are, brother.”
“Fashion district in twenty minutes. Come prepared for a quick extraction.”
“Always am. Target?”
“Eleanor Beaumont. William’s daughter.”
There was a pause on the other end, and I could practically hear Lev’s brain processing the implications. “Taking it personal, are we?”
“Prague was personal. This is business.”
“If you say so. See you in twenty.”
The fashion district was exactly what I’d expected.
All glass and steel and pretentious bullshit, designed to separate rich people from their money while making them feel sophisticated about it.
Eleanor’s building stood out among the rest, sleek and modern with floor-to-ceiling windows that probably cost more than most people’s houses.
I parked across the street and settled in to wait, rain drumming against the windshield like a metronome counting down to violence.
The building’s security was adequate but not exceptional.
A few cameras, basic access controls, the kind of setup that kept out casual thieves but wouldn’t stop someone with professional skills.
My earpiece crackled to life. “In position.” Lev’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Copy. Status?”
“Building’s mostly empty. Cleaning crews on floors two through seven, but they’re wrapping up. Security guard’s making his rounds, should be back at the front desk in fifteen minutes.”
I checked my watch. Eight-thirty PM. Most legitimate businesses would be closed by now, but fashion people kept different hours. They thought working late made them important, gave them some kind of artistic credibility.
Tonight, it was going to get Eleanor Beaumont kidnapped.
“Target’s still in her office,” Lev reported. “Lights on, fourth floor, northeast corner. Looks like she’s got company.”
That was a complication I didn’t need. “How many?”
“Just one. Blonde woman, designer clothes, moving around a lot. Probably discussing whatever the fuck fashion people discuss.”
I considered my options. Two targets meant twice the potential for things to go wrong, and it also meant Eleanor wouldn’t be alone when I made my move. Fear was easier to manage when it was isolated.
“We wait,” I decided. “Blonde leaves, we move.”
“Copy that.”
The rain intensified, turning the world outside my car into an impressionist painting of blurred lights and moving shadows. Perfect conditions for disappearing someone. The city had emptied itself, leaving only the desperate and the dangerous to navigate the flooded streets.
I was definitely both.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. Just an address and a time. No signature, but I recognized the format. One of our contacts, confirming the safe house was ready. Everything was falling into place like dominoes arranging themselves for the fall.
“Movement,” Lev’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Target’s leaving.”
Then, Lev added, “Blonde’s still inside. But she’s focused on her work, not paying attention to anything else. Target stepped out of the main office area.”
“Copy. Moving to intercept.”
I got out of the car and crossed the street, rain soaking through my jacket within seconds. The building’s front entrance was locked, but locks were suggestions when you knew how to ask nicely. The access card I’d acquired from a former employee opened the door without complaint.
The lobby was marble and pretension, all clean lines and expensive art that probably cost more than most people made in a year. Security camera in the northeast corner, motion sensors by the elevators, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
I took the stairs instead of the elevator, moving silently up four flights of concrete and steel. The stairwell was empty, echoing with the sound of rain against the building’s exterior walls. Each step brought me closer to the moment I’d been planning for six years.
Eleanor Beaumont had no idea her world was about to end.
The fourth floor was quiet except for the hum of air conditioning and the distant sound of a sewing machine. I could see light spilling out from under a door at the far end of the hallway, marked with elegant lettering that read “Eleanor Beaumont Designs.”
Through my earpiece, Lev whispered, “She’s moving around inside. Looks agitated.”
Perfect. Distraction was always useful.
I approached the office door and listened. Footsteps inside, the rustle of fabric, the clink of coffee cups. Eleanor was alone and focused on her work, completely unaware that death had come calling.
But I wasn’t here to kill her. That would be too quick, too merciful for what her father had done. This was about leverage, about making William Beaumont understand that his sins had consequences that reached beyond his ability to control.
“She’s moving,” Lev’s voice crackled through my earpiece. “Left her office, heading toward the back of the building.”
I waited in the stairwell, patient as death itself. The building’s emergency exits were designed for fire safety, but tonight they were serving a different purpose. I’d already disabled the interior locks from this side, making sure anyone who entered wouldn’t be leaving without my permission.
Through the concrete walls, I could hear footsteps approaching. Eleanor was coming to me, probably looking for fresh air or a moment to clear her head from whatever fashion crisis was consuming her life.
She had no idea she was walking into her nightmare.
The door above me opened, and I heard her voice echo down the stairwell. “Hello?” Uncertain, already sensing something was wrong.
Perfect.
I could see her phone in her hand through the gap in the stairwell, probably trying to call for help. But these old stairwells were dead zones for cellular signals, all concrete and steel that blocked radio waves as effectively as they blocked escape routes.
I started climbing the stairs slowly, deliberately, letting each footstep announce my approach. The sound echoed off the walls like a countdown to her destruction.
“Hello?” Her voice drifted down from above, shaky but trying to sound brave.
I didn’t answer. Not yet. Fear was like wine—it needed time to breathe before it reached its full potential.
I climbed the stairs slowly, deliberately, letting each footstep announce my approach. By the time I reached her floor, Eleanor was pressed against the locked door, trapped exactly where I wanted her. Her phone was useless, no signal penetrating the concrete tomb she’d walked into.
She was even prettier in person than in her photographs, though terror had drained the color from her face.
The camera hadn’t captured the gold flecks in her hazel eyes or the way fear made her freckles stand out against pale skin.
She was wearing the same jeans and tank top from the surveillance photos, clothes that made her look younger than her twenty-one years.
Perfect.
“Please,” she whispered, backing as far away from me as the small landing would allow. “I don’t have much money, but you can have whatever—”
I pulled out the chloroform-soaked rag I’d prepared earlier. “This isn’t about money.”
Fear flashed in her eyes. Good. She was smart enough to understand that this wasn’t random, which would make the psychological impact so much stronger.
She tried to run past me, but there was nowhere to go. The stairwell was a concrete cage, and I was blocking the only exit. I caught her easily, one arm wrapping around her waist while the other brought the rag toward her face.
She fought like hell. I had to give her credit for that. Elbows to my ribs, heels stomping toward my feet, fingernails trying to find purchase on any exposed skin. But she was untrained and panicked, her movements wild and ineffective.
The chloroform took effect within seconds. Her struggles weakened, then stopped entirely as her body went limp in my arms. She was lighter than I’d expected, all fragile bones and soft curves that spoke of a life lived in safety and comfort.
That was about to change.
“Package secured,” I reported through my earpiece.
“Clean?”
“Silent as a grave. Prepare for extraction.”
I lifted Eleanor’s unconscious form and carried her down the stairs, moving quickly now that stealth was no longer necessary. The parking garage was empty except for a few expensive cars that belonged to people who worked late and thought they were important.
Lev was waiting with the van, engine running and rear doors open. We loaded Eleanor into the back, securing her with zip ties and a blindfold for when she woke up. The whole operation had taken less than ten minutes from start to finish.
Professional work.
As we drove through the rain-soaked streets toward the safe house, I looked back at our unconscious passenger and smiled. William Beaumont was about to learn that actions had consequences, and some debts could only be paid in blood and tears.
Prague was finally going to get its justice.