Chapter 8 Sergei
SERGEI
The first bullet takes the sky apart.
One second, the lane is only birch trees and snow. The next, a white panel van lurches across the road, and the glass above my head shivers into fractured frost.
Instead of braking, I drive straight into it. Metal slams metal. Nadia screams once in the back. Vera folds over her like a shield. Raina’s palm hits the dashboard, her breath catching hard in her throat. The van rocks, its tires shrieking against the ice.
“Smoke,” I say into the radio. “Pattern three. Vladislav, front. Now.”
His reply is immediate. “Understood,” he says, voice steady as stone. He has been in more ambushes than most men live years. Doors open behind us. My men roll canisters low. They hiss under the van, white plumes blooming fast. The lane disappears in seconds, swallowed whole.
“Down,” I tell the women, already pushing my door open. Raina drops flat with Nadia curled tight against her chest. Vera covers them both.
Another round cracks through the windshield, higher this time, spraying glass dust. The angle is wrong. That came from the trees.
I drop behind the open door, pistol in my hand, snow biting through my socks. The air is sharp with exhaust and the metallic tang of a fired round. Somewhere above, a drone buzzes, its lens searching, hunting for angles.
“High right,” Vladislav says over the radio. “Tree line. Two shooters at least.”
I trust his eyes. He learned to count barrels in Chechnya.
“Hold the flank,” I tell him. “No one gets past the van.”
I catch a glimpse of Vladislav through the smoke, a hulking shape moving with surprising speed, rifle up, another man tight on his shoulder. He should be at home counting money and giving orders by now, but he still likes to work with his hands.
Shots stutter from the birches. My men answer. Short bursts, not panic fire. Bark explodes. Something heavy falls. The drone dips lower, trying to see through the haze. It’s a mistake. Vladislav tracks the sound, lifts, and one clean shot sends it flailing into the trees, rotors snapping.
“Sky clear,” he says.
The smoke is thinning now. I move around the SUV’s front corner, gun leading. The van’s driver door hangs open. No one’s inside. Two bodies lie on the road in front of it, black clothes against white. Kirill and Igor appear at my side, breathing hard.
“Cover,” I tell them and walk toward the bodies.
One man lies face down, blood seeping from under his ribs, staining the snow dark.
The other is on his back, eyes open to the pale strip of sky.
The snow caught in his lashes is already melting.
On his sleeve is a patch I know too well.
Yellow and black. Baranov warehouse crew.
A man who should never have stood in my way.
The Courier used my own men to deliver a message.
I crouch, feel in his pockets. No wallet, no ID. Burn scars on his fingertips. I pull out a cheap burner phone, identical to the one left in the kitchen box. Vladislav joins me, boots leaving deep prints.
“I know this one,” he says. “Pavel. Koltso warehouse. Three years on payroll.” He exhales, the air turning ice. “He was no trouble. I vouched for him.” There’s something dangerous and quiet under his words, pride tainted with insult.
I turn the phone on. One message thread, one contact, no name. At the top, a single text glows.
Second delivery acknowledged.
The Courier has his own logistics now. He speaks our language and uses my men like expendable parts because he’s homegrown. “Strip the patch,” I tell Vladislav. “Bag the phone. We clean this road and disappear before a local starts to ask questions.”
“I will finish it,” he says. “You take them out of here.”
He looks past me at the SUV, at the shadow of Nadia’s small head against the window. His eyes soften, then harden again. “You chose the right lane,” he adds quietly.
“There was only one lane,” I say.
He snorts. “You know what I mean.”
I stand, holster my pistol, and go back to the car. Inside, Raina has Nadia’s face cupped in her hands, checking for blood that isn’t there. Vera watches the tree line, jaw tight, hand near the gun at her hip. “We’re done,” I say. “For now.”
“For now?” Raina echoes.
“He sent us a progress report,” I answer. “That’s all.”
I slide behind the wheel. The engine complains, then settles. In the mirror, Vladislav is already directing men, boots crunching, bodies being dragged out of sight. We pull away, leaving the van scarred and steaming in the lane like someone else’s accident.
I don’t take the direct road back to the mansion. The Courier has already proven he knows my main routes. Instead, I cut across the ring road, through side streets, under an overpass where graffiti coats old concrete like a second skin, off the obvious path, just like Vladislav said.
I call ahead once, briefly, to a number that does not exist in any of my usual ledgers. “Prepare seven-G,” I say. “Full stock, full sweep. Thirty minutes.”
A man’s voice answers with a simple, “Da.”
The building—another apartment I own in the city—sits near the river on a narrow street lined with bare trees and expensive cars. Glass and concrete, clean lines, a concierge behind smoked glass pretending not to see anything worth money. Inside or out.
We roll into the underground garage. Metal doors lift slowly, then close fast once we’re inside. Cameras watch, but they report to me, not to the building’s management.
We swap vehicles in the shadow of a pillar, my men moving in a tight, silent rhythm. New plates, new profiles. The city swallows us the second we step out of the old SUV. If anyone followed from the country, they would lose us in this concrete maze.
I get the women inside. In the private elevator, Nadia clings to Grisha the bear and to Raina’s sweater. Her eyes look too big in her small face. The adrenaline is fading. The tremor in her fingers isn’t. “You did well,” I tell her.
She peeks up at me. “I was scared.”
“So was everyone else,” I say. “But you handled it like a champ.”
The elevator opens directly into the apartment, the quiet, high-ceilinged space money can buy when it wants to blend in.
Dark parquet, pale walls, a kitchen that has never seen a real meal.
Floor-to-ceiling windows show the city from twenty floors up, the river cutting through like a strip of dull steel.
Andrei, Kirill’s cousin, waits near the island, bug sweeper in hand. He nods once.
“Clean,” he says. “Pipes, outlets, vents. Double-checked,” he adds, squaring his shoulders.
“Good,” I say. “Take your positions. I want two men stationed at the elevator and one at the stairwell door. You will rotate in groups of three so no one loses focus. Don't make a single call out unless you see blood. Nothing else warrants interrupting me.”
“Sdelayu, Pakhan,” Andrei says softly, nodding once to the women before stepping into the elevator.
Vera drops the go bag on the sofa. Her shoulders sag for the first time. She has been carrying herself like a fortress since the cabin. Now that we have four walls and distance, she lets some of it go.
“Bedroom?” she asks.
“Down the hall,” I say. “On the right.”
She scoops Nadia up. The girl has gone quiet, thumb near her mouth now. She’s still clutching her teddy bear.
“I want to help,” Nadia murmurs into Vera’s shoulder.
“You did,” I tell her, tapping her nose. “You listened fast. That keeps people breathing.”
She nods, her eyes catching soft silver, then says, “I’m hungry.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Hungry means alive. We can work with alive.”
Raina watches all of this from the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself. The tension in her shoulders makes my own muscles ache. Vera sends Nadia to wash and change.
“Kitchen,” I say, pointing the way.
Raina blinks. “What?”
Nadia’s first memory of me is already gunfire and broken glass. All I can do is soften the next thing. “Come,” I tell Raina. My voice is gentler than I expect. “I need your help.”
The fridge is full. When I bought this place, my instructions were simple—keep enough food for a small family on short notice. I never thought I’d actually use that clause.
We check the drawers, the refrigerator racks. Raina counts the items out loud, her voice lighter with each one. “Eggs. Milk. Flour. Butter. Syrup. Chocolate. A lemon.”
“We make pancakes,” I announce, as if it’s the only natural conclusion.
“Pancakes?” Raina asks, leaning against the doorway, watching me pull things out.
“Yes.”
“You remember the recipe?”
“I remember everything that feeds a child,” I say quietly.
She smiles, almost. Nadia returns, hair damp, eyes wide. She spots the counter and squeals.
“I can help?” she asks.
“You can stand here,” I say, pulling a sturdy stool to the counter. “And stir.” I keep a hand at her back as she climbs up. Then I tie a dish towel around her and fold her fingers around the whisk, her small hand vanishing inside mine.
“Not too fast,” I say. “You will wear more of it than the pan.”
She takes it seriously, stirring with such concentration her tongue peeks out at the corner of her mouth. Batter splashes onto the counter. Raina’s breath catches when Nadia laughs at the mess, the sound high and free.
I pour the first pancake. Bubbles rise, pop. Nadia leans in to watch.
“When do we flip?” she whispers.
“When the edges look toasty,” I say. I place her hand on the spatula, steadying it with my own. “Ready. One, two, three.”
We turn it. It lands crookedly, batter slopping to one side. Nadia gasps, then giggles, the sound filling the narrow kitchen.
“I missed,” she says.
“You hit the pan,” I reply, approval shining in my voice. “That’s what counts.”
We make a small tower of them before the batter runs out and douse them with syrup and chocolate sauce.
We sit at the table. Vera keeps her back to the wall.
Habit. Raina sits opposite me, Nadia between us, feet not touching the floor, swinging absently.
She insists her bear gets a tiny piece. Vera rolls her eyes but cuts one anyway.
“Is he your friend?” Nadia asks, pointing at me with her fork.
Raina looks at me over the girl’s head. There are too many answers in her eyes.
“He’s someone who keeps his word,” she says finally.
Nadia considers that, then shrugs and drowns her pancakes in syrup.
After, Vera takes her to the spare room’s bathroom to brush her teeth. Raina shadows them, testing every lock, every hinge, every vent like she expects a threat in the pipes. She forgets this place was designed for siege. Or she remembers and still checks everything anyway.
Vera appears in the doorway.
“She’s calling for you,” she says. “She wants you to read her a story.”
I read the bear story because Nadia asks.
She’s in the narrow bed, covers pulled to her chin, the knitted bear tucked in with her.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and open the small book we found in the drawer.
A bear sleeps through winter. Snow falls.
The world outside holds its breath. My voice softens on its own.
I feel Raina’s eyes on the back of my neck, but I don’t look up.
By the time the bear reaches spring, Nadia’s eyelids are heavy. Her hand darts out and catches my wrist.
“You stay?” she asks, the word softened by sleep.
“Yes,” I say. “I stay.”
I step out onto the balcony. The sky over Moscow is blue, buildings sharp against it.
The river glints. The wind cuts through my shirt, clean and cold.
This is what I built. Stone. Glass. Money.
Men. And somewhere inside all that, a child asleep with a stuffed bear and a woman who still looks at me like I'm both a weapon and shelter.
The door slides open behind me. I know her step now. I don't turn immediately.
Raina comes to stand at the rail, a half-step away. She wears one of the plain sweaters from the wardrobe and leggings, feet bare. Her hair is down, moving slightly in the wind.
“She fell asleep fast,” she says.
“She was tired.”
“Terrified,” Raina corrects.
“Those often travel together.”
We stand in silence for a moment, watching headlights streak along the bridge in the distance.
“I saw the patch,” she says. “On the man in the road.”
“Warehouse crew,” I say quietly.
“He’s not the only one,” she says. “You know that now.”
“Yes.”
“The Courier didn’t fall from the sky, Sergei. He grew in your soil. He learned your routes, your habits, your blind spots. You made him without knowing it, and then you left him out there long enough to decide you were the real target.”
Her words aren’t gentle, and they aren’t wrong.
“I thought the ones I spared were lucky. Now I see they were unfinished work.” I turn to face her.
She looks at me fully. “That’s why I came back,” she says. “Not because I forgive you. I’m not there. But because no one else in this city can pull out a problem this deep without tearing the whole thing down.”
She pauses, her gaze drifting to the icy-blue city spread beneath us. When she speaks again, her voice is low. “And because Nadia deserves more from you than a name.”
She hesitates, then lifts her hand, her fingers brushing my jaw. Her eyes search mine, as if she expects me to flinch or laugh. I don’t.
“Come to bed with me,” she says.