Chapter 27 Kazimir
KAZIMIR
The bandage on my right hand is soaked through by the time we reach the industrial district.
Blood has seeped past the gauze, past the tape, staining my sleeve dark and wet.
Every heartbeat sends a fresh pulse of agony through the ruined flesh where my finger used to be.
I can feel the shock trying to creep in at the edges, making my thoughts fuzzy and my hands shake.
It’s an injury that should have me in a hospital, not heading into a firefight.
I press my left hand over the wound, applying pressure, and stare out the window at the passing streetlights. Each one that flickers past is another second Svetlana is in their hands. Another second they could be hurting her. Touching her. Breaking her.
The image of her face—the way she'd looked at me before I left, soft and open and trusting—keeps flashing through my mind. I should have felt it, should have known that leaving her alone was a mistake.
What are they doing to her right now?
The thought makes my stomach turn. I've seen what Iosef and his men are capable of. I've seen the scars on Svetlana's body. I've held her through the nightmare where she wakes up screaming, convinced she's back in that cell.
And now she is. Back with them. Back in their hands.
My right hand throbs, and I welcome it. The pain distracts me, keeps me from spiraling into the thousand terrible scenarios playing out in my head.
Ilya sits beside me in the back of the SUV, silent and focused. Three more vehicles follow behind us, carrying more of his best men, armed and ready.
It won't be enough if we're too late.
"You're bleeding through," Ilya says quietly, his eyes on my hand.
"I know."
"You need to—"
"I need to get to her." I don't look at him. "That's all I need."
Ilya is quiet for a moment. "You'll be useless if you bleed out before we get inside," he says finally. "Viktor."
The man in the front passenger seat turns around. "Boss?"
"Give him a stimulant. And re-wrap that hand. Tighter."
Viktor pulls out a small case, flipping it open to reveal two syringes filled with clear liquid. Military-grade stimulants, most likely—the kind that will keep you on your feet through anything, at least for a few hours. The crash afterward will be brutal, but I'll worry about that later.
He jabs the first needle into my thigh, right through my pants. The drug hits my system like ice water, sharp and clarifying. My vision sharpens. The fog at the edges of my consciousness recedes. The pain in my hand doesn't disappear, but it becomes distant and manageable. "Better?" Viktor asks.
I nod. I can already feel the difference. My hands have stopped shaking. My thoughts are clear, cold, and focused.
Viktor motions to my hand. "Let me see it."
I hold it out. He unwraps the blood-soaked bandage with efficient movements, revealing the mangled flesh beneath. The stump where my finger was is still seeping blood.
Viktor works quickly, packing the wound with fresh gauze soaked in clotting agent, then wrapping it tight enough that I feel the bones in my hand grind together. I don't make a sound. "That'll hold," he says. "For a few hours, at least. After that, you’ll need a better doctor."
He returns to the front seat. Ilya is watching me with an unreadable expression. "Try not to get yourself killed. She'll need you alive."
The building comes into view five minutes later.
An old textile factory, abandoned for years, windows broken and walls tagged with graffiti.
It sits at the end of a dead-end street, surrounded by empty lots and other derelict buildings.
The perfect place to hide someone. The perfect place to hurt someone where no one will hear them scream.
My hand throbs. I ignore it.
We park two blocks away, the vehicles pulling into the shadows of an abandoned warehouse. Ilya's men emerge silently, checking weapons and adjusting body armor.
Ilya gathers them in a tight circle, his voice low.
"Two-man teams leading small groups. Yuri and Maksim, you take the east side.
Pavel and Dimitri, west. Viktor and Alexei, you're on the roof—find a vantage point and give us eyes.
The rest of you, with me and Kazimir. We go in through the main entrance. "
He pulls out his phone, bringing up a blueprint of the building.
"It's four stories. Ground floor is open factory space.
Second and third floors are offices and storage.
Basement level is where they'll have her—that's where the old maintenance rooms are.
Concrete walls, hard to hear anything, perfect for keeping someone hidden. "
My chest tightens at the thought of her trapped in there, of how she must feel right now.
"We clear each floor as we go," Ilya continues. "Suppressed weapons until we get inside. Once the shooting starts, it's open season. Anyone armed is a target. Anyone who gets between us and the basement is a target. Questions?"
Silence.
"Good. Kazimir goes with my team. He gets to the basement first—that's non-negotiable. The rest of us provide cover and eliminate any threats." He looks at each man in turn. "This is a rescue operation. Speed and precision. We get in, we get her, we get out. Understood?"
There’s a chorus of quiet affirmatives.
"Move out."
We approach on foot, spreading out to cover all angles of approach. The street is empty, no traffic, no witnesses. Just the wind and the distant sound of the city and the pounding of my heart.
Two blocks become one, then a half a block, and then we're there, pressed against the wall of the building next to the factory, weapons raised.
Ilya raises his fist. We stop.
He points to Yuri and Maksim, then to the left. They disappear around the corner, moving like shadows. Pavel and Dmitri go right. Viktor and Alexei head for the fire escape that will take them to the roof. The rest of us wait.
Thirty seconds turn into a minute. Then Viktor's voice crackles through the radio in Ilya's ear. "In position. I count two guards outside, main entrance. Two more on the second-floor catwalk, visible through the windows. Unknown number inside."
Ilya looks at me, then at his remaining men. He makes a series of hand signals. Two men move forward, circling wide to approach the guards from behind.
I watch them work. They come up behind the guards—two men smoking cigarettes, relaxed and unaware—and it's over in seconds. There are two suppressed shots, and the bodies crumple. The path is clear.
Ilya looks at me. I nod, and we move.
The door opens silently—someone has oiled the hinges recently, which means this place is being used.
Inside, the factory floor stretches out in darkness, broken only by weak moonlight filtering through the shattered windows above.
Old machinery looms around us, casting grotesque shadows across the concrete.
Somewhere in this place, Svetlana is waiting.
The air smells like rust and oil and old blood.
We move through the factory floor in formation, weapons raised, every sense on high alert.
My right hand hangs at my side, the fresh bandage already showing spots of red, but my left grips my gun steady and sure.
The stimulants Viktor gave me are doing their job—my vision is sharp, my reflexes hair-trigger, every sound amplified.
My training and experience take over, muscle memory guiding me even as my mind screams at me to run, to find her, to make sure she's still breathing.
A shadow moves near a support column. Ilya's man—Sergei—raises his weapon, but I'm faster. I fire. Two shots, center mass. The guard goes down with a choked gasp, his weapon clattering against the concrete.
We freeze, waiting to see if the sound has alerted anyone else.
Silence.
We keep moving.
The factory floor is a maze of old equipment and debris. We clear it section by section, moving from cover to cover. Another guard appears from behind a rusted engine block, and this time it's Ilya who takes the shot. The man drops without a sound.
Two down.
We reach a metal staircase leading to the second floor. Ilya sends two men up first, weapons trained on the catwalk above. They move silently, and I hear the soft sound of suppressed shots, then see a thumbs-up signal. The guards Viktor spotted from the roof are neutralized.
Four down.
But how many more? How many stand between me and Svetlana?
It doesn't matter. I'll kill every single one of them.
We descend from the second floor to the ground level, then find what we're looking for: another stairwell, this one leading down. The door is newer than the rest of the building, reinforced steel with a heavy lock.
Of course. They've taken her underground, just like before. Just like that cell in Russia where I'd found her the first time, broken and terrified.
Ilya examines the lock, then looks at one of his men. "Breaching charge. A small one."
The man pulls out a strip of plastic explosive, molding it around the lock mechanism. We all step back, turning away. The explosion is muffled but still loud enough to echo through the building. The door sags on its hinges, the lock blown apart.
So much for stealth.
Ilya kicks the door open, and we pour through into the stairwell. The stairs descend into darkness, concrete walls pressing in on both sides. Ilya pulls out a flashlight, keeping it low. The beam catches on water stains, graffiti, and then a door at the bottom.
Behind that door, I can hear voices.
My entire body goes rigid. Every instinct screams at me to charge down those stairs, to kick that door open, to paint the walls with the blood of anyone who's touched her.
Ilya's hand on my shoulder stops me. He leans close, his voice barely a whisper. "We go in smart. Fast, but smart. You get her out. We handle the rest."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.