9. Ruslan
9
RUSLAN
The wind off the Black Sea cuts through the silence as I approach my car, gravel crunching beneath my boots.
I pull out my keys, barely glancing up.
I might not have gotten exactly what I came for, but I got enough to go to General Morozov with, who is the next call on my list.
“Please wait, Mr. Dragunov.”
The voice is clipped.
Not nervous, not deferential—just firm.
I stop mid-step, the keyless remote in my hand, and turn slowly toward the voice.
The guard is young but trained.
His flak vest doesn’t sit awkwardly on his shoulders.
His hand doesn’t twitch near his weapon.
He’s not here to ask.
Then I hear it—the low, rhythmic thump of blades.
A helicopter slices through the pale sky, descending over the Zorin farm like a hawk onto prey.
Fuck.
The guard doesn’t speak again.
But steps closer to me.
“There is someone who would like a word with you.” He nods toward the incoming chopper.
The helicopter touches down thirty yards from the farmhouse, kicking up a storm of dust and grit.
I narrow my eyes against the wind, watching a tall man in civilian clothes climb out.
Jeans, sheepskin-lined bomber jacket, thick wool scarf, cap pulled low—but there’s no mistaking the posture, the weight of command in every stride.
General Timofey Morozov walks straight toward me.
I guess this saves me a trip.
I slide my phone into my coat pocket and adjust the collar of my jacket.
The general stops just in front of me and extends a leather-gloved hand.
“Mr. Dragunov.”
“General Morozov.” I take the handshake.
Firm, measured.
No posturing.
No warmth either.
“I heard you were here,” he says.
“Visiting one of the people under my protection.”
“Is that why you came?”
“When Ruslan Dragunov walks into my territory unannounced, I make it my business to ensure no one’s being harassed, harmed... or bullied.”
“I’m not here on official business,” I tell him.
“But I’m glad you came. I was heading to your farm next.”
His brows lift slightly.
“Also in a non-official capacity?”
“Yes.”
The air shifts, sharp and quiet.
The unspoken tension builds between us like a rising tide.
I tilt my head.
“Well, that’s a coincidence. I was going to call you in the morning when I heard you were at Dragunov Village,” the general informs me.
“May I ask the intentions of your visit?”
“I’m looking for answers,” is my reply.
“Answers to what?” the general asks.
“What is your wife’s connection to Leonid Zorin?”
There’s a flicker in his eyes—small, fast—but I catch it.
His hand raises, and he circles his index finger.
Then the world goes dark as a bag is shoved over my head and something hard jabs into my temple.
I know the feeling of the cold steel of a barrel even through a bag.
“Don’t resist, Mr. Dragunov,” the General says softly.
“I would hate to be the one to ruin all the great things you want to accomplish.”
Surprise zaps through me.
My wrists are yanked behind me.
I’m relieved of my gun and car keys, and zip-tied as a whisper of jasmine rides the air.
“My men and the villagers will wonder where I am,” I warn.
“They won’t,” Morozov replies.
“One of my men will inform your people you’ve been invited to dine with me and my wife when he takes your car back to the village.”
I hear the smile in his voice.
They march me toward the chopper, firm hands guiding me like a prisoner of war.
The blades scream above us, drowning out my thoughts.
I stumble inside, heart hammering.
What the hell have I stepped into?
The flight lasts fifteen minutes.
Fifteen long, silent minutes with nothing but the roar of the blades and the vibration of tension humming through my bones.
The hood muffles sound, but I feel the descent in my gut—my ears pop, and the cabin tilts.
Then the shift of boots.
A door groans open.
Hands grab me again and march me forward.
Inside.
Cool air.
Quiet hallways.
The thump of my own heartbeat sounds louder than anything else.
I’m shoved into a chair, my wrists still bound.
Then the hood is ripped off.
Stark white walls.
Fluorescent lights that hum overhead.
A metal table bolted to the floor.
No windows.
I flex my jaw.
So this is how the general plays it.
The guard clicks one cuff around my right wrist and loops the other through a steel ring fixed to the tabletop.
I test the chain.
Just long enough to sit back or lean forward.
Not long enough to do anything useful.
The door clicks shut.
I exhale and wait.
There’s not much else to do except wonder what the fuck is going on?
This is what I get when I act on impulse driven by a need not to face what’s really eating me— the picture of Gavriil taking Tara through to the bedroom.
Two weeks after we’d been together.
My jaw clamps down hard, and I breathe through my nose, trying to squash the raging anger inside me.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m snapped out of my torment when the door opens.
A bulky guard steps in first, blocking most of the frame.
Then the general follows, coat open, scarf loose around his neck.
His eyes sweep the room, landing on the cuffs.
“Why is he restrained?” he asks.
“Security protocol, sir,” the guard answers.
“To ensure he doesn’t pose a threat.”
The general’s gaze moves to me.
Steady.
Unmoved.
But there’s something beneath the surface.
Calculation.
I stare right back.
“Uncuff him.”
“Sir—”
“Now.”
The guard hesitates, then hands his rifle to the general before stepping forward.
I lift my wrist, and he unlocks the first cuff.
He leans in close—too close.
His voice drops to a whisper, meant for my ears alone.
“We respect the Dragunov name,” he says.
“But we follow General Morozov. Remember that.”
I hold his stare.
And in that moment, I notice the insignia on his sleeve—a thin red stripe interrupted by a circle containing the number five.
On his flak jacket is a red dragon.
The uniform has just been taken from The Dragunov Guard—that insignia on the sleeve tells me they are a revival of it.
The Dragunov Guard was my ancestors’ elite protectors.
When my great-grandfather was captured, the guard was disbanded, hunted, forcefully absorbed into the Russian military, or killed outright.
I see General Morozov has taken the liberty to recreate it.
Lev.
The name sits heavy as he steps back, retrieves his weapon, and nods to the general.
“You can leave us,” Morozov says.
“I have sensitive matters to discuss with Elder Dragunov.”
The title hangs in the air.
Lev doesn’t argue.
Just gives me a final look of warning before slipping out and shutting the door.
We’re alone now.
The hum of the lights above us is the only sound.
The general takes a seat across from me and lays a folder on the table.
“So the legends are true,” I say.
“The great General Morozov instills such deep loyalty in his team that they would lay down their lives for him on command.”
“I’ve long since learned that loyalty goes both ways,” the general informs me.
“To earn it, like trust, you have to give it.”
“Thank you for the lesson, general.” My voice drips with sarcasm.
“Always a thrill to get some words of wisdom from the great General Morozov.” I lift a brow.
“But you do know that the Dragunov Guard is meant to serve The Dragunov?”
“And when a new Dragunov arises,” the general tells me, “I will gladly send my men to protect him.” He leans back and looks at me with that look that says he knows something I don’t.
“No, thank you, I would rather have men loyal to me,” I decline his offer.
“Not some private security that serves most of Russia’s elite and powerful, as well as other parts of the world. I want the real Dragunov Guard, not D-Fire Private Security.”
“They are the Dragunov Guard,” General Morozov tells me.
“Your grandfather and I started recreating the guard after the raid of the Dragunov Village by the Golden Hydra.”
My heart lurches, my gut clenches, and I force away the memories that want to spring to light in my head when he mentions that fateful raid on my village fifteen years ago.
“My grandfather never mentioned it to me,” I tell him in disbelief.
“Why would he?” the general counters.
“You wouldn’t have listened as you were grieving and consumed with rage and revenge.”
“The Mirochins used the village like a prized toy a scorned member of the Mirochins family tried to take away from the head of the family,” I seethe at the memory.
“They use my people as pawns, cheap labor, and keep us in line through fear of things like that happening.” My eyes narrow angrily.
“I will not let that happen again.”
“Neither will I,” the general announces.
“That is why D-Fire private security is now securely positioned as Russia’s top security firm. It’s not just government officials and the elite who use the service. It’s crime families, including the Mirochins.”
That does get my attention.
“My grandfather knew about this and didn’t tell me?”
“He was going to when he thought you were ready,” the general tells me.
“And before he died, he made me promise to continue the tradition of my ancestors to protect the Dragunov Territory and the Dragunovs. Like my family has had as the head of the Dragunov Guard for generations.”
“I thought that tie had been severed when you became such a decorated and revered General in the Russian Army,” I point out.
“The first Morozov to serve Damien Dragunov, your great-great-grandfather and the man who built the Dragunov Legacy from the shattered remains of the ruined Russian Royals, also served in the military,” the general reminds me.
“I didn’t bring you here for a history lesson. I brought you here to hear you out because you had questions.”
“I already asked it. Before your little power play.”
He doesn’t blink.
Just sits, patient and calm, like he’s got all the time in the world.
I lean forward.
“I know Lidiya Zorin is alive. Or should I say—Lidiya Ergorov. General Ergorov’s first wife. She was supposed to be dead, wasn’t she? But there she is, hiding behind a nurse’s uniform, playing caretaker to her grandmother, Ofeliya Zorin.”
The General’s face doesn’t change, but I see the slightest shift in his posture.
Tension in his shoulders.
“I also know Leonid Zorin faked his own death and started over in America with a new family.”
No denial.
No confirmation.
Nothing.
“But what I don’t understand is why he would take your granddaughter with him?” I continue.
“Unless… she was valuable. Like her grandmother. A prodigy?”
Still no reaction.
“You brought me here because I asked the wrong question. Because I got too close.”
“I brought you here to protect you,” the general says at last.
I let out a bitter laugh.
“I don’t need your protection.”
“You think you don’t,” he says, folding his hands over the folder.
“But you’ve stumbled into something larger than your vendetta with the Mirochins or your secret project to rebuild the Dragunov Legacy.”
My brows shoot up.
“I can assure you, general, whatever it is, I can take care of myself.”
“Not if you’re going to continue looking into Leonid Zorin or his connection to my wife,” the general says.
“Is that a threat, General?” I look at him challengingly.
“Not from me,” he replies.
“Trust me, I can handle the RMSAD and the military,” I assure him.
“If you continue pursuing this,” the general warns, “the Russian Military, government, and even the RMSAD will be the least of your worries, and I suggest you start sleeping with one eye open.”