Chapter 7 Yakov
Yakov
The moment I step away from the car, I force myself to focus.
It's harder than it should be.
Laney's scent still clings to me. Orange and jasmine, clean and sweet, completely at odds with the violence I'm about to commit. I can still feel the softness of her skin under my thumb, the way her breath hitched when I told her she was mine.
Focus.
I move through the shadows between warehouses, keeping low, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The address the Albanian gave me before I put a bullet in his brain is three buildings down. A squat concrete structure with boarded windows and a single entrance facing the parking lot.
Amateur hour.
Zajmi's getting sloppy, or he doesn't think anyone's looking for him. Either way, it's going to cost him.
I circle the building, checking for sentries, cameras, alternate exits. There's a loading dock around back, door propped open with a cinderblock. Cigarette butts scattered on the ground.
I pull my gun and move closer, listening.
Voices inside. Albanian. Two, maybe three men. One of them laughing at something.
I check my phone. No signal here, but I'd called Kaiden before we left the Strip. He should be on his way with a crew, ETA twenty minutes at the very most.
Twenty minutes is a long time when you're alone in enemy territory.
I slip through the loading dock door, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior. The warehouse is mostly empty, a few pallets stacked against the walls, some old equipment rusting in corners. But in the center, there's a makeshift office built from plywood and plastic sheeting.
That's where the voices are coming from.
I move closer, keeping to the shadows. Through gaps in the plastic, I can see them, three men sitting around a folding table, playing cards. Guns on the table within easy reach.
Beyond the office, at the far end of the warehouse, there's another enclosed space. A metal shipping container. The kind you can lock from the outside.
I’d stake my life that's where they're keeping the women.
I need to clear the office first.
I wait, patient, watching their patterns. The one facing away from me gets up and stretches as he checks his phone. The one on the left is drinking, already half-drunk by the look of him. The other is alert, dangerous, his hand never far from his gun.
He'll be first.
The drunk one gets up to piss, stumbling toward a bucket in the corner. The moment his back is turned, I move, silent and fast.
I put a bullet in the alert one's head before he can reach for his weapon. The second shot takes the one checking his phone in the chest. He goes down gasping.
The drunk one spins around, fumbling for his gun.
I shoot him in the throat.
He falls, choking on his own blood, hands clutching at the wound. I walk over and finish him with a shot to the head.
Silence falls over the warehouse.
Too easy. There should be more of them.
I check the office quickly, nothing but cards, cash, and a laptop I'll have my tech guys look at later. Then I move toward the shipping container.
The door is padlocked. I shoot it off.
The smell hits me first, unwashed bodies, fear, desperation. Then I see them.
A dozen women huddled together in the darkness. Filthy, terrified, some of them bruised. One of them screams when she sees me, scrambling back against the metal wall.
"It's okay," I say in English, then Russian, then Serbian, just in case. "I'm here to help. I'm not going to hurt you."
They don't believe me. Why would they?
I holster my gun and raise my hands, backing up a step. "My name is Yakov Korolyov. I'm looking for four women who were taken from Las Vegas casinos in the past two weeks. Are you—"
"You're Bratva," one of them says. American accent. Blonde hair matted with dirt. "You're the one they were afraid of."
"Yes." No point lying. "Where are you from?"
"Vegas. I worked at the Korolyov." She's shaking but trying to hold it together. "My name is Macy."
Relief hits me like a fist. "Macy Walsh?"
"Yes. How did you—"
"Your boss reported you missing. So did your roommate." I pull out my phone, still no signal. "Are the other three here? Faith? And Laurie Parker? A girl from another casino?"
"Faith is here." Macy points to a redhead curled in the corner. "Some of them work clubs and bars. A few of them... they’re not doing well. And Laurie..." She swallows. "Laurie's in the back."
"In the back?"
"They took her earlier. Said she was too much trouble, kept trying to fight them. Zajmi wanted her moved to a different location. I don’t know if she is still here."
Ice floods my veins. "Where in the back?"
"There's a room. On the other side of that wall." She points to the far end of the container. "Please, you have to help her. They were talking about... about making an example of her."
"Stay here and stay down until I come back."
I'm already moving as she begins to rally the women together. Out of the container, around to the other side of the warehouse. There's another door, newer, metal. Also padlocked.
I shoot the lock off and kick the door open.
Laurie Parker is zip-tied to a chair in the center of the small room. Her face is bruised, lip split, but her eyes are clear and furious when she sees me.
Alive. She's alive.
"Who the fuck are you?" she demands, her voice raspy enough that I wince at how sore her throat must feel. Empty water bottles are strewn around the floor, but it’s clear she hasn’t had the luxury of drinking anything for at least the whole day, if not longer.
Then I almost laugh. She sounds exactly like Laney, that same fire, that same refusal to break.
"I'm Yakov Korolyov. Your sister sent me."
Her eyes go wide. "Laney? Laney's here? In Vegas?"
"Yes. And she's going to kill me if I don't get you out of here in one piece." I pull out my knife and cut through the zip ties. "Can you walk?"
"I can run if I need to." She stands, wobbling slightly. "Where is she? Is she safe?"
Just as I’m about to tell her that Laney is safe in my car, not even a quarter of a mile away, I pull open the door, and she is there she is.