Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
M IKHAIL
The engine of the SUV cuts out, leaving us in a suffocating silence.
Through the cracked windshield, the abandoned brick structure of the old ironworks looms like a rotting carcass against the night sky.
The windows are jagged teeth of black glass, and the only light comes from the pale, watery moon and the faint, yellow glow leaking from the loading bay doors.
It smells like damp earth, rusted metal, and the salt of the nearby river.
I turn to look at Irina. She’s sitting perfectly still, her hands resting flat on her knees.
Her knuckles are white, her blue eyes wide and fixed on the entrance of the building.
She hasn't said a word for twenty minutes, but I can hear the shallow, erratic catch in her throat. She’s vibrating with a terror so pure it makes my own chest ache.
I reach over, my hand wrapping around her neck, my thumb dragging across her jaw to force her to look at me. Her skin is cold, her lips dry.
"Irina," I say, my voice a quiet, low rasp. "Look at me."
She turns her head slowly, her eyes searching mine in the dark. "I'm here."
"If anything goes wrong, if a single shot is fired, you drop. You get behind me, and you stay there. Do you understand?"
She swallows hard, her fingers coming up to grip my wrists. "I'll stay behind you. Just... don't let them hurt him."
"They won't touch him," I say.
I kiss her and then I pull my piece from the holster under my jacket.
I check the chamber, the slide clicking back with a heavy, satisfying sound, before I tuck it back into the leather.
I reach down, checking the spare mags on my belt, and then I check the small, serrated blade tucked into my boot.
"Let's go," I grumble.
We step out of the SUV, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.
The night air is freezing, cutting through my suit jacket, but I welcome the chill.
It keeps my head clear. I wrap my arm around Irina’s waist, keeping her flush against my side as we walk toward the loading bay.
My eyes are scanning the dark corners of the yard, the rusted shipping containers, the broken concrete.
I can’t see Konstantin’s men, which is exactly how it’s supposed to be. But I know they’re there.
We push through the heavy metal door.
The interior of the building is massive, the high ceiling lost in the darkness.
Rows of rusted iron pillars stretch into the gloom, and the air is thick with the scent of old grease and stagnant water.
In the center of the space, beneath a single, buzzing halogen lamp, a long wooden table has been set up.
Boris Petrov is sitting there. He’s dressed in his expensive gray overcoat, his silver-headed cane resting against his knee, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looks like a king sitting in a tomb.
And next to him sits my father.
Vladimir Morozov looks older, his face hollow and gray, but there is a smug, pathetic satisfaction in his eyes as he watches us approach. He’s wearing his old wool coat, his hands resting on the table like he still owns the city.
"Son," Vladimir says, his voice a dry, rattling hiss that echoes off the brick walls. "You're late."
"I had to make sure the roads were clear of your garbage," I say. I stop ten feet from the table, my arm staying locked around Irina’s waist. I can feel her heart hammering hard.
"Always so disrespectful," Vladimir sneers, taking a sip of his drink. "Artyom thought he could discard me. He thought because he took the seat, I’d just crawl away to the country and die. But he forgot who built this family."
"You didn't build anything, Father," I growl, my eyes shifting to Boris. "And you're about to find out how little your name is worth when I'm done with you."
"Enough of the family reunion," Boris says, setting his glass down with a heavy click. He looks at Irina, a cold, mocking smirk touching his lips. "You look tired, Irina. Did you have a nice drive? I hear the roads near the canal can be quite treacherous."
"Where is he?" Irina snaps, her voice shaking but her blue eyes flashing with fury. "Where is my son?"
Boris doesn't answer immediately. He reaches into his coat, pulls out a small silver bell, and rings it. The tiny, clear sound is jarring in the massive, quiet space.
A heavy iron door near the back of the room creaks open.
Two of Boris’s enforcers step out. Between them walks a small boy. He’s about seven years old, with golden-brown hair that matches Irina’s. He looks confused, his small hand tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, his eyes blinking against the bright halogen light.
Irina lets out a shattered, choking sob. She lunges forward, her hands reaching for him, but I catch her waist, my arm an iron bar that locks her in place. She struggles against me, her fingers clawing at my jacket, her whole body shaking as she tries to get to him.
"Oleg," she whispers, her voice cracking with a raw, agonizing pain that goes straight to my chest. "Oleg, baby, I’m here! I’m right here!"
"Keep her quiet, Mikhail," Boris says in a sing song voice. “Sergei is still standing behind him. If she takes one step, the boy dies."
I look at the man standing behind the boy. Sergei. He’s got his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, his other hand tucked into his jacket where the gun is.
"Irina, look at me," I growl, turning her toward me, my hands grabbing her upper arms. Her face is wet with tears, her eyes wide and blind with panic. "Look at me. Be quiet. Be still. I’ve got him. I promise you, I’ve got him."
She looks into my eyes, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps. She nods slowly, her bottom lip trembling as she tucks herself behind my shoulder, her fingers gripping the fabric of my suit jacket like a lifeline.
I turn back to the table, my face turning into a mask of pure, unadulterated ice.
"Let’s talk about the deeds, Boris," I say.
"The deeds are simple," Vladimir chimed in, his gray eyes bright with greed.
"Fifty percent of the shipping lanes. The North Dock holdings. The future contracts with the Germans. Boris and I will take over the transit points, and you and Artyom will handle the logistics. You’ll be our enforcers, Mikhail. Just like the old days."
"The old days are dead," I say, my hand resting near my holster under my jacket. "And you’re a fool for thinking Boris is going to share fifty percent of anything with you once he has the deeds. He’s using you, Father. Just like he’s using my wife."
"He’s giving me my name back!" Vladimir roars, slamming his fist on the table. "He’s giving me the respect your brother took from me!"
"He’s giving you a coffin," I growl.
Boris let out a dry, satisfied chuckle, leaning back in his chair. "Do you have the contracts, Mikhail? Or are we going to listen to you lecture my partner all night?"
"I have them," I say. I reach into my jacket, pulling out the thick leather folder Konstantin prepared. I toss it onto the table. It slides across the wood, stopping inches from Boris’s glass. "But Artyom needs to sign it too."
Boris frowns, his eyes narrowing as he reaches for the folder. "That wasn't the deal."
"It’s the only deal you're getting," I say, keeping my voice level, my eyes tracking his movements. "You want the empire? You wait for the seal. But the boy comes with us tonight. As a show of good faith."
"I don't show good faith to tigers," Boris sneers. He opens the folder, his fingers flipping through the pages of the contract. "We keep the boy until the seal is verified. Once the docks are mine, you can have your little bastard back."
I check my watch. Nine fifty-eight. The decoy trucks should be entering the Ferry Street warehouse right now. Boris’s spotters are probably watching the gates, thinking they’re about to intercept our primary inventory.
"Mikhail," Irina whispers from behind my shoulder, her fingers digging into my back. "He looks so scared… “
I look at Oleg. The boy is standing perfectly still, but his fingers are twitching against his jeans, his eyes darting around but focusing more on Irina, with confusion and what looks like awe.
My chest goes tight, a sudden, fierce pride rising through the rage. He’s my son too, and I’m going to protect him with all I have.
"You're quiet, Mikhail," Vladimir says, his eyes searching my face. "Are you realizing you've run out of moves?"
"I'm just thinking about how much I'm going to enjoy burying you, Father," I say.
"Always the hothead," Vladimir sighs. "You were always the difficult one. Artyom was smart. He knew when to bend. But you... you just break things."
"I break the things that are rotten," I say.
I feel a small, sharp vibration in my trouser pocket. One. Two. Three.
Three short buzzes. The signal. Konstantin’s team has neutralized the spotters in Newark. The decoy warehouse is secure.
Boris has no more leverage. He just doesn't know it yet.
"We’re done playing, Boris," I say, my voice dropping into that low, quiet register that makes my own men step back.
Boris looks up from the folder, his eyes narrowing as he senses the shift in the air. "What did you say?"
"I said the game is over," I say, my hand sliding under my jacket, my fingers wrapping around the cold, textured grip of my gun. "The Newark warehouse is clear. Your spotters are currently in the back of a van on their way to the river."
Boris’s face goes completely pale, his gaze darting to the folder on the table.
"You bastard," Boris spits, his chair screeching back as he stands up, his hand reaching for his cane. "You think you can outplay me? Sergei, kill the boy!"
Irina lets out a shattered scream, but before Sergei can even move his hand toward his pocket, one of the guards near the rusting loading dock door spots a shadow through the grimy glass.
"Movement!" the guard shouts, his hand flying to his holster.
My instincts take over. I draw.
The weight of the piece is perfect in my hand, the sight lining up with the chest of the guard near the door in a fraction of a second. I pull the trigger.
The roar of the nine-millimeter is deafening in the enclosed brick space, a white-hot flash of fire cutting through the yellow halogen light.
The bullet hits the guard directly in the sternum, the force of the impact throwing him backward into the rusted iron pillar.
He hits the concrete with a heavy, wet thud, his gun clattering away into the dark.
"Down!" I roar, my left arm grabbing Irina’s shoulder and slamming her onto the concrete behind my legs.
The room explodes into chaos.