Chapter 42
JULIAN
The safe house is a stone Colonial on six acres in Cold Spring Harbor. It’s an old money property, purchased through one of my shell companies. It sits at the end of a gravel road flanked by bare oaks, the Long Island Sound visible through the trees, the nearest neighbor a quarter mile away.
I’ve used it twice in ten years—both times were situations where Manhattan wasn’t safe enough.
Tonight most definitely qualifies.
There are four surviving syndicate heads in my living room.
Baranov is in the armchair near the fireplace, a bandage on his arm, where a ricochet caught him.
Kuznetsov is pacing the length of the room, phone in hand, calling his people.
Semenov is seated at the dining table. He’s silent, his suit coat draped over the back of a chair, an untouched glass of vodka close at hand.
Orlov is the fourth. He runs the counterfeit corridor through the Baltics. He’s never been one for idle chatter, and tonight is no exception. He stands at the window, watching the rain with the hollow focus of a man who’d come within inches of death.
Kuznetsov hangs up his phone and slips it into his pocket.
“Well?” asks Baranov.
“Cleaners are en route to the council meeting site,” he says. “They’ll have it sorted within the hour.”
Baranov nods his head slowly. “One less thing to worry about. And if I can make a request, have them dump Dobrov’s rotting corpse into the nearest landfill.”
“What about your family?” I ask Kuznetsov.
“On the private jet. They’ll be in London by morning.”
“Good.”
Semenov chooses this moment to finally speak. “We should’ve seen this coming. A goddamn takeover. How did we not see it?”
“None of us could’ve predicted that Julian’s own brother would do something like this,” Baranov replies. “There was nothing to be done.”
I disagree. I could’ve done a better job seeing through Alexander, should’ve trusted my gut when it told me that he was up to no good.
But maybe part of me, against my better judgement, believed him when he came to my office, telling me he wanted to put this all behind us and be brothers again.
My affection, my love for him as a brother, was the one card he had to play.
And he played it.
“Dobrov, Lee, your brother,” Baranov says. “They were all working together. This was coordinated and planned. Nothing was left up to improvisation.”
Orlov turns from the window. “Yang. We know that he’s dead?”
Semenov looks up. “Lee wouldn’t have done what she did if there was any doubt.”
“Lee was running her own operation inside the Triads. She wanted Yang’s seat and used our council as the opportunity to take it,” I tell the group. “She’d take Triad leadership from Yang, partner with Dobrov, and install my brother as a puppet.”
Orlov’s jaw works. “Then the Triad partnership is dead. If she wanted to kill all of us, there’s not a chance in hell we’ll work with her.”
Baranov chuckles. “They tried to kill us once, and they’ll do it again. No doubt they’re dedicating every resource they have to tracking us down.”
“How safe are we here?” Semenov asks.
“Safe enough,” I reply. “They’d have to do some major digging to find this location, and they may find it eventually. But we have time.”
But it’s not me I’m worried about—it’s Lyra. And Misha. I’ve not heard from either of them, and every second that passes without contact increases the chances that something is terribly, terribly wrong.
Semenov sips his vodka.
“Yang is dead, and Lee now controls their U.S. operations. She’s aligned with your brother against you. It’s only a matter of time until—”
“Yang may not be dead,” I state.
Every head in the room turns.
I clear my throat. “Lee said he was no longer available. Yes, it could mean that he’s dead.
Or it could mean that she wants us to think that he’s dead.
Or perhaps that she’s assuming so.” I pause.
“I negotiated with Yang for months. I know him, and that’s why I know he’d never do something like give Lee broad powers to change our arrangement. ”
“She said she was his representative in the U.S.,” Baranov points out.
“Right,” I say. “Representative. It was a bullshit assertion that she was anything more than his U.S. mouthpiece, but she wanted us to think otherwise. And, most importantly, Yang is a planner—Lee moving against him would almost certainly be something that he’d have contingencies for.”
Baranov snickers. “That’s a lot of hope for a man with no proof.”
Before I can say another word, my phone buzzes. I snatch it out of my pocket, desperate for good news.
But it’s not a message from Misha or Lyra.
Two minutes. Be ready for me.
—Yang
My eyes widen as my hand involuntarily rubs my forehead.
“Who is that?” Baranov asks. “What’s going on?”
I slip my phone back into my pocket and turn to the room.
“I can tell you now, with total certainty, that Yang isn’t dead, because he just texted me.”
Just then, a trio of cars pulls into the driveway. I step over to the window and watch as men pour out of them, a dozen or so in total. None of them are visibly packing weapons, but there’s no doubt in my mind that they’re all armed.
The last man to exit the vehicles is Yang.
Chen Yang is shorter than one might expect—five-foot-five, maybe five-foot-six. He’s seventy years old but moves with the briskness of a man who practices Tai Chi every morning.
He’s dressed in a dark overcoat. I spot field dressings beneath it.
He’s been shot.
He and two of his men approach the front door while the others stay back. I open it to greet them. Yang’s eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, but I can tell he’s looking at me. As he approaches, I spot a bit of blood on his dressing from a wound that’s still seeping.
“Mr. Volkov,” he says. “I apologize for the unannounced visit. I understand that you’ve had a difficult evening.” His English is accented but precise.
“Indeed I have,” I reply. “But it looks as if yours wasn’t much better.”
He lets out a snort of amusement. “That is certainly one way to put it. I would shake your hand, but my arm is a bit difficult to raise at the moment.”
I step aside, gesturing for him and his men to enter.
“You’re supposed to be dead, Yang,” Baranov says.
“Mrs. Lee would prefer that, yes.”
He makes his way over to the couch, one of his men helping him slip out of his coat before he sits. I watch as the man checks the dressing and the wound underneath. Yang winces a bit as his man pulls the bandage back in place.
I quickly introduce everybody before asking the question that’s on all of our minds. “What happened?”
A small smile spreads across his face as he takes off his sunglasses. “Would you believe it if I told you it was an assassination attempt?”
“Lee.”
He nods. “Indeed. But you wish to know the circumstances.” He sits back.
“Over the course of the last few weeks, I’d been receiving disturbing reports that Mrs. Lee was not acting in the capacity that I’d envisioned for her here in the States.
Her role was to be the embodiment of my will, to execute my commands without question, and to report information back to me. ”
Baranov speaks. “It would appear she expanded the parameters of the role.”
“And you would be right in that assessment,” Yang says.
“I’m no fool—I have men here who are loyal to me, who report back to me regarding Lee’s moves.
It became clear that she was planning something.
So I prepared a trip to New York to check in, in person.
It was kept secret, not on her itinerary.
Unfortunately, however, her people managed to get word of my visit, and they made their move on the way to the airport. One bullet, left shoulder.”
“One bullet that she assumed was fatal,” I say.
“Correct. And I let her keep that assumption.” He shifts in his seat, wincing a bit more. “I wanted to see what she would do in my absence. And now I know.
“She used my name to undermine your council and tried to take you out of the picture. She is… ambitious. I’ll give her that.”
“She’s a goddamn psycho,” Orlov says. “Killed half our syndicate heads.”
“And for that, you have my apologies. I was en route during this awful business, otherwise I would’ve intervened in a more significant way.” He leans forward. “But what is the expression you Americans have? ‘If you come for the king, you’d better not miss.’”
Orlov snorts. “That applies to two men in this room.”
“Mr. Volkov, in case it’s not abundantly clear, I signed our agreement with you.
Not with your brother. Not with Dobrov. And Mrs. Lee has no say in this matter.
I will deal with her personally and at length.
Once this business is sorted out, we will return to the finalization of the routes.
Do not worry, gentlemen, there is a large pot of gold waiting at the end of this for each of us. ”
“Good to hear,” Baranov says. “But right now, I’d just like to have my family in New York without worrying whether or not something is going to happen to them.”
“We have mutual concerns,” Yang says. “Lee and Alexander are working together. And until they are stopped, no business can be conducted and no safety can be guaranteed.”
“They’re going to try to consolidate,” I say. “Take advantage of the chaos and temporary vacuum to solidify their position. And if they can get to any of us—”
“Then let us not allow things to get that far,” Yang says, cutting in.
“I propose a joint operation—Russian and Chinese resources coordinated. We locate Lee and Alexander, dismantle their network, and handle them as we see fit. Then your council can reconvene and I purge my organization of troublemakers. Clean and simple.”
“We remove the cancer before it has a chance to metastasize,” I say. “Alexander is an idiot and Lee is overextended. There’s no reason for this to drag out. They made their move, and now it’s time for us to make ours.”
Yang turns his attention to me. “I understand that Alexander has your woman.”
I grit my teeth. The mention of Lyra incites a rage inside me that I can barely control.
“I assume he does.”
“Then let us not keep her waiting.”
My phone rings. The room goes silent as every eye turns to me.
The screen shows that it’s Alexander calling. I pick up but don’t say a word.
“Julian. We need to talk.”
He sounds wired—tight and manic—like he’s high on adrenaline.
“Where is Lyra?”
“She’s safe—for now. Comfortable, even. Sophia’s keeping her company.”
The rage that moves through me is white-hot.
“What do you want, Alexander?”
“New terms. You step down, and you do it publicly. You sign over both the company and the syndicate to me. You dissolve your claims with Yang, and you disappear. Take your money. Take whatever you want. But the company, the council seat, and the Bratva—they’re mine.”
“And Lyra?”
“Lyra walks free the moment you sign. She and the baby, unharmed. You have my word.”
“Your word?” The word of a man who lied to my face in order to distract me, and then he tried to put a bullet in my head. His word means nothing. But the only thing that matters right now is making sure Lyra is safe.
“I’ll need to meet in person,” I tell him, my tone calm and measured, “to discuss the details.”
“I’ll send the coordinates.”
“Do that.”
I hang up and set the phone on the table, then look at Yang.
"He wants me to turn over everything to him before he’ll release Lyra safely.”
"Then we have work to do," Yang says. "We must act quickly."
I nod. And then I start planning.
My brother has made the last mistake he will ever make. He took the one thing I will burn the world down to get back.
He’s about to learn the cost of betrayal.
And it’s a lesson I’m very eager to teach him.