Chapter 14
Alexei
My fingers tap against the side of my thigh while crouching behind cover. My eyes locked on the stash house my father wants cleared and searched for intel.
It’s somewhere past midnight. The compound sits about two hours outside the city.
Lit up like a damn Christmas tree with floodlights covering every angle.
Shipping containers are stacked around the fenced lot.
Calder and I counted at least eight guards outside, probably more inside handling the actual product.
I push to my feet and glance over at Calder. He’s checking his weapons. We’re both wearing the tactical gear we use for jobs like this, loaded for a firefight in case things go sideways.
His tattoos make him look even more disturbing in the shadows, his shaved skull covered in some nightmare design of skulls that morph into screaming faces with blacked-out eyes.
The ink bleeds down his forehead and onto his chin like blood dripping from a fresh wound.
I don’t understand how Yulian can call him his best friend.
I’m fucked up, but Calder’s in a category of his own.
I crack my neck and roll my shoulders. “Let’s just get this over with.”
He hums in agreement. We start moving along the path we mapped out earlier, staying in the tree line to avoid the lights. We cut through the chain-link fence with bolt cutters and crawl through the gap, then split up to handle the perimeter guards.
I pull my knife and move in behind the first man, clamp a hand over his mouth, and slice his throat in a smooth motion. I keep the sound trapped in my palm while blood runs down his neck, then lower him to the ground and drive the knife into his back to make sure he stays down.
The next guard goes just as quietly.
Across the lot, Calder makes his kills unnecessarily complicated. He’s grinding his boot into some guy’s skull long after the man stopped breathing. He can never just kill efficiently and move on.
Two guards patrol near the shipping containers. The first one turns, sees me. Reaches for his gun. I close the distance before he can draw, grab his wrist, twist until bones crack. He opens his mouth to scream. I drive my palm into his nose until bones crunch. He goes down.
The second guy swings at me. I duck under his arm, sweep his legs, drive my boot into his throat. Once. Twice. Until he stops moving. Then I slit both their throats.
We clear the outside without raising any alarms, then approach the main warehouse. Through the cargo door, I count seven more targets moving around inside. I hold up seven fingers to Calder. He nods, grinning manically.
The warehouse is packed with shipping crates and stolen cars and makeshift office spaces built into the back corner. Tables line the center of the space, covered in stacks of cash and vacuum-sealed bricks of product waiting to be distributed.
I grab the first guard from behind, clamp my hand over his mouth, and sink my knife into his kidney. He screams into my palm. I yank the blade out and stab until he goes limp. I drop him and wipe my knife on his shirt.
I crack my neck and move toward the next target, but he spots me and opens his mouth to shout. I flip my knife and drive it up through his jaw into his skull, grabbing his shoulder to lower him quietly to the ground while stabbing him over and over again into his jaw.
Across the warehouse, Calder’s stalking his own target. He kicks the back of the man’s knee out, drops him hard, then slits his throat while catching the body before it goes down.
I keep moving behind cover and spot three more targets grouped near the cash tables. Two are talking while the third stands behind them with an AR, keeping watch.
Calder appears beside me without a sound and studies the three men. “The one with the rifle. He’s left-handed but holding it wrong. Nervous. New to this. He’d break in under three minutes.”
“Go distract one. I will take the other two. You can do whatever you want to the one you distract.”
His mouth curves slightly. “This is why I don’t mind working with you.”
I grunt and take position behind a stack of crates.
One of the men separates to check a noise. I grab his head, twist hard and fast. Neck snaps. He drops. The other guard sees me, brings his AR up, shouts.
I throw my knife. Blade sinks into his throat before sound comes out. He stumbles backward, clawing at the handle. I close the distance, yank the knife free, drive it under his ribs. He goes down gurgling.
When it’s done, Calder’s leaning against a post with the third guard on his knees, hands zip-tied behind his back. Blood drips from the man’s nose. “Would have been more fun to have a chat with all of them.”
I wipe the blood on my pants. “We’re not here so you can experiment. Focus. We need information, not a fucking show.”
He grins. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a joy to be around?”
I bite the inside of my cheek and try to keep my temper under control. “Just get information from him and then kill him.”
I walk into the office area. Spot a metal staircase leading downstairs. Wait, this wasn’t on the layout Daniil gave us. This is something that’s not supposed to exist according to our intelligence.
I call Calder over. He approaches with blood splattered across the visible parts of his face, the rest hidden under layers of black ink.
We stare down the narrow staircase. I pull out my weapon, clicking the safety off, and he does the same.
We descend one step at a time with guns raised until I stop mid-step and lift my gloved hand to cover my nose.
The stench hits like a physical wall, making my eyes water.
Calder just shrugs and keeps moving down.
I follow, still covering my face, into a large basement room lined with white folding tables.
There’s a door in the back, closed, probably leading to another section.
In the center, there are more drugs and cash stacked high, but along the back wall, there’s a row of heavy metal cages—the industrial kind used for large animals.
Someone’s slumped inside one of them, their body twisted at odd angles. Next to that cage, I see the source of the smell. Bodies are stacked like cordwood, all in different stages of decomposition.
A sudden blast of music echoes from behind the closed door. Some kind of death metal.
I raise my weapon higher, let go of my nose despite the stench. Then move toward the sound. The smell worsens.
I nudge the door open with my gun and look inside. Seven men sprawled across black leather couches with multiple naked women around them. Some dancing to the music, others drinking or snorting lines off glass tables.
I make the hand signal for multiple targets.
Calder nods and moves, but I grab his arm before he can alert them. “Work through the men first. They’re armed.”
“Roman said no survivors.”
“Da. Men first.”
I drop three men before anyone reacts. Calder takes the left side and puts down two more. Screaming erupts, and the women scatter, but instead of running for cover, they grab guns from the fallen guards and take us by surprise, opening fire.
“Fuck! I got hit,” Calder shouts.
I move through the chaos and drop the last two runners. The room falls silent, and I scan for threats, find none. Glancing over at Calder, he points to where he took a round in his vest and shakes his head with a scowl.
Father’s orders were clear. No survivors. Kill everyone.
Bringing the girls to Yulian would have been an option.
He runs Vespera, and he’s good to his girls, doesn’t force them into work they don’t choose.
They’d have protection, a chance to disappear into something safer than this.
But they sealed their fates when they decided to target us and try to kill us, which means they would never have been loyal to us and would have turned on us the first chance they got, given our enemies information about us.
Calder turns his focus on me, dissecting me with his eyes. “Your form’s off. Technique’s fine, but your head’s somewhere else. What’s wrong?”
My jaw clenches at his comment. I pull my knife, flip it once, and throw it past his head. The blade grazes his ear on the way by. He doesn’t move. Reaches up slowly, wipes the blood with his finger, licks it off. “Good aim.”
One day, I won’t miss on purpose.
I walk to the desk and start pulling files from the drawers, stacking them without reading through everything. Just grab whatever looks useful and toss it onto the pile.
Calder returns with more papers and drops them on top of my stack without saying anything. We work efficiently together even when he’s being a pain in the ass.
I text my father.
Me:
First location cleared, torching soon. Moving to phase two.
We ended up torching the stash house after collecting boxes of documents, then took care of the three names on Father’s list. But I have one more target I need to handle. Someone who wasn’t part of the original mission.
I park outside a gray, run-down house. Red pickup truck in the driveway. Somewhere past dawn but still early enough that the neighbors aren’t awake. We dumped the other car and switched to one of our clean vehicles with untraceable plates, so I’m not worried about being identified.
“He was not on the list,” Calder says, tilting his head against the passenger seat, studying the house.
“Nyet.” I rub my jaw. “Do you think you can actually drown someone in a toilet?”
“What, like theoretically? Or are we talking practically?”
“Practically. How would someone actually do that?”
He considers it and rubs his jaw with his tattooed hand.
“You would need to keep their head submerged. Continuous water supply. Force their face down into the bowl, boot on the back of their neck for leverage. Flush repeatedly. Water keeps rising, nowhere to drain while their head is blocking it.” He pauses, then a disturbing smile spreads across his face.
“Fuck. That is diabolical. Technically, yeah. Could definitely work.”
“How long would it take?”
“Few minutes, depending on lung capacity and how much they fight. But it would work.” He looks over at me, curious now. “Why the toilet specifically? Bathtub would be easier. More water capacity.”
“It has to be the toilet.”
“Interesting choice.” He studies me for a moment. “Very specific.”
I reach for the door handle.
“You are really committed to this method.” He tilts his head. “Not your usual style.”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really.” He folds his arms. “Can I watch?”
“Why?”
“I want to see if the method actually works as well as I think it will. Professional curiosity.”
I shrug and push the car door open.
Brent Cole Lawson shoved Kelly’s head in a toilet and called him a faggot in high school, laughed about it, made other people laugh, thought it was funny. I’m returning the favor. Hold him under until he drowns, let him choke on the same filth. Karma has a sense of humor too.
Calder walks beside me toward the house. “How are we getting in? Front door? Window?”
“Front door. I don’t care about being subtle.”
“Even better.” He pulls out his knife, testing the weight. “I will clear the house while you grab the target. Make sure no one interrupts.”
I will kill a man for looking at him wrong, but I won’t tell my own family he exists. What kind of sense does that make?
None. But here I am anyway.
Kelly pretends it’s fine. Says he understands why I keep him hidden. But he shouldn’t have to pretend anything. Shouldn’t have to be my secret while I tear apart anyone who hurts him. I’m doing this for him whether he wants me to or not.
He doesn’t have to know. Doesn’t even have to say thank you. All he has to do is keep existing and keep letting me near him.
I will handle everything else. It’s the only thing I know how to give him.