Chapter 27
YURI
Rain cuts across the windshield in waves, the wipers barely keeping up.
Alexei’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh like he’s not about to walk into cartel territory. We haven’t spoken much. Don’t need to. The silence between us has always been utilitarian. Efficient.
But tonight, it hums.
“How’s she settling in?” he finally asks.
I keep my eyes forward. “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
He nods. Doesn’t press. He knows better.
We drive under the cracked bones of an old overpass, heading deeper into South Lawndale. Little Village. Once De la Rosa’s backyard. Now it's in the grip of one of those new-school Colombian upstarts—younger, louder, with no respect for boundaries.
We didn’t think we’d have to deal with this neighborhood again after De la Rosa went down. We were wrong.
“Elena traced the bastards to a block just west of Pulaski,” I say. “Five exits, one loading dock, no guards on the perimeter as of an hour ago. But she flagged at least two thermal signatures near the south corner. Could be heat decoys. Could be men.”
Alexei shifts gears, pulling up to a curb across from a dark, crumbling warehouse with a corrugated steel facade and broken windows boarded over. The kind of place people disappear into.
“We go in quietly,” he says. “Two entrances. You take the north. I’ll cover the west side. No shots unless necessary. And if we happen to find the one who touched her—”
“I’ll take his hands first,” I say flatly, interrupting him. “Then we’ll talk.”
He smiles. “Sounds like you’re in love.”
I ignore his comment, not because he’s wrong, but because I don’t want to waste time on words that don’t change a damn thing.
We get out and rain soaks through my coat instantly. I pull the hood up and keep my head down, eyes scanning. No movement yet.
“We clear?” Alexei murmurs.
I nod once. “Let’s go.”
We split up. My boots hit puddles, soundless in the downpour. I make my way toward the north entry, keeping close to the wall, finger brushing the trigger guard of my sidearm.
The door’s ajar, suggesting either carelessness or a welcome mat.
I slip inside, darkness swallowing me whole.
The hunt begins.
I find a door to my right and push it. It creaks open with the groan of rusted metal. Fluorescents buzz overhead, half-dead. The smell is industrial rot—chemical residue, dust, stale sweat.
The warehouse is a maze of crates and stacked pallets. We sweep through in slow arcs. I raise a hand when I spot a folding table in the corner of the room, documents strewn across it.
Receipts. Codes. Shipment logs. Names. A few I recognize. One is circled. An alias I haven’t heard in years.
No fucking way.
I pocket the page.
I hear metal shifting. Footsteps. My instincts flare just before gunfire erupts from above.
I dive sideways as bullets rip into the space where I just stood.
Wood explodes, shards flying. Alexei is already moving toward me from the other end of the building, returning fire with surgical precision.
One shooter goes down screaming, a shot straight through his clavicle.
Two more drop from the catwalks. I roll behind a forklift, heart hammering but focus clear. One of them tries to shoot Alexei. I step out and take him down with two in the chest. He folds instantly.
Another rushes me, low and wild. I sidestep, plant my foot, and drive my elbow into his temple. He drops. I put one in the back of his head to be sure.
Three down. At least two left.
Alexei moves like a phantom—calm, efficient, lethal. He drops one with a clean shot through the ribs. The last man panics and tries to run. Alexei hits him in the chest. He collapses with a grunt, crawling, bloody hand reaching for the knife he just dropped.
I’m already there, standing on it.
He’s young and has a tattoo of a scorpion crawling up his neck. His teeth are stained from nicotine, sweat soaking his collar. I kneel beside him, gun in hand.
“Name,” I growl.
He smiles through the pain. “Too late, Russian. You’re in it now.”
I press the barrel against his knee. “Try again.”
His lips twitch. A broken laugh. “Christian wants you to know…”
I freeze.
“…you owe a debt in blood.”
Then he goes still. Just like that. No last gasp. No plea.
He’s dead.
Fuck. I stare at him. He received a quick death. He got lucky. I would’ve made it nice and slow, taken my time for what he did to Astrid.
Alexei walks over, blood on his sleeve. “Looks like we just kicked the hornet’s nest.”
“And now I’m going to burn it to the ground.”
Alexei curses beside me, his phone lighting up. “It’s Elena,” he says, eyes scanning the screen. “CPD’s en route. Someone must’ve heard the gunfire.”
I grit my teeth. “How long?”
“Three minutes, max.”
Damn it.
I glance at the table. I’ve managed to slip a few financial statements into my coat but not nearly enough.
“We need to move,” I say.
We head out the way we came in, boots silent over the cracked floor. The air outside feels colder, heavier. The rain keeps coming, sheeting down as we slip back into the SUV. I shut the door as Alexei dials.
“Put her on speaker.”
A beat later, Elena’s voice crackles through the system, sharp and amused. “I warned you boys not to play too loud.”
“You tracking us?” I ask.
“Always,” she says, a smile in her voice. “Cop cars are coming in from Ashland and 38th. You’ve got thirty seconds to cut down Maple and hang a left in the alley behind the laundromat.”
Alexei punches the gas, and we’re flying through narrow streets, water hissing beneath the tires. Sure enough, two black-and-whites speed past the next block, sirens silent but lights flashing.
“You owe me coffee for this.”
“Coffee. Is that what you call that battery acid you drink?” Alexei asks, flipping the wipers to full speed.
We cut across Cicero and finally ease back into the flow of traffic. I reach into my coat and pull out the folded documents, thumbing through the rain-speckled pages. Half of it’s in code, but a few names stand out.
One in particular makes my stomach tighten.
“Daniel Riggs,” I mutter.
Alexei glances over. “That supposed to mean something?”
I nod once, slow and grim. “It’s Spalding. That’s the alias he uses when he doesn’t want Bureau oversight. I’ve seen it before—buried in old offshore account logs tied to some of the shell companies we flagged last year.”
Alexei exhales through his nose. “So he’s not just circling. He’s in it.”
“Neck-deep,” I say, folding the papers again. “Which changes everything. Looks like he’s been receiving regular wire transfers from a shell company connected to Velásquez’s front.”
Alexei swears under his breath. “He’s on the take.”
“Makes sense. He was too eager. Too well-timed. That raid was a warning shot, not a real move.”
“You think he set Astrid up for that attack?”
“I think he’s not the only one playing a double game.”
I sit back in the seat, the papers still in my lap, rain drumming against the windows like a ticking clock.
I’m going to find out just how deep this rot goes.