Chapter 2 #2
“Rope,” he notes, and he holds it up between two fingers.
It’s coarse, industrial grade, the kind used in warehouses and boats, not the thin cord found in a hardware store aisle.
“They didn’t waste time,” I reply. “They had restraints ready.”
Karp walks the perimeter of the street, his eyes moving over doorways, dumpsters, and the blind spots between buildings. He doesn’t need to be told what to look for. He’s looking for the absence of normal, the place where a van can stop without being seen.
Polina’s feeds arrive through Mikel’s phone, and he angles the screen toward me.
It’s a mosaic of camera angles, traffic intersections, private security cameras from nearby businesses, and a hacked feed from a gas station.
The quality varies, but the motion is clear, and the van appears on three separate cameras, heading south and then cutting west at a point where the public cameras stop.
“They planned the camera gap,” Polina’s voice comes through on the speaker. “They chose the corridor with the least municipal coverage.”
“Can you follow the van?” I ask.
“I can try,” she replies. “There’s a private camera network on the train yard, but it’s inconsistent.”
“Patch it,” I tell her. “I want routes and time stamps.”
“I’m on it.”
I end the call and look toward the train tracks.
Old Stowe Yard isn’t a single building. It’s a cluster of warehouses and loading bays that used to move freight through the city before newer infrastructure made it redundant.
Now it’s rented in pieces by small logistics companies and shell operations that want square footage without questions.
Mikel moves beside me, his shoulders squared against the cold. “Intel,” he tells me, and he hands me a folder pulled from his coat, the papers inside sealed in plastic to protect them from the weather.
“Talk.”
“Arkady’s men were in this district two days ago,” he states. “Two separate sightings. One at a loading dock near the spur, and one at a bar on the edge of the strip that’s known for cash business.”
“Witnesses?” I prompt.
“Two business owners,” Mikel replies. “Both paid to keep their mouths closed, but Polina found them anyway.”
I open the folder and scan the photographs. They’re grainy, but enough.
A van. A man with a beard. A gray Tacoma parked near a bay door with chipped paint.
“Blue door,” I note. It’s confirmation.
“There’s more,” Mikel adds. “A warehouse was rented last week under shell ownership. The paperwork looks legitimate, but the funding moved through three temporary firms that dissolved within days of the transfer.”
I glance at him.
“The layering is familiar,” he continues. “Fragmented deposits. Routed through businesses that don’t stay active long enough to draw scrutiny.”
I lower the photographs back into the folder.
Arkady has the motive and the reach to carry it out.
He would use Rowan and Lila without hesitation if it served him.
But one detail doesn’t line up. Arkady spent decades as my father’s strategic advisor.
He built operations meant to be understood by the men they were aimed at.
He prefers clarity once a move is made. He wants you to know who moved the board and why.
This was quiet and contained, built to take and disappear without drawing attention. That isn’t how he usually operates.
I roll my shoulders once beneath my coat and let my hands rest at my sides, keeping my posture easy even though nothing about this is. I don’t share that part with Mikel. Not yet. Until it’s solid, it’s a distraction, and distraction gets people hurt.
We return to the vehicles and continue deeper into the district toward the warehouse listed in the rental documents. Streetlights thin out here, replaced by motion sensors that blink on as we pass, leaving long stretches of darkness between pools of dim light.
Karp lifts two fingers from the passenger seat, and the SUV slows. He points toward a bay door with peeling blue paint. We park down the block and step out, leaving the engines off this time. We approach on foot, spacing ourselves so we don’t present a single target.
The air smells like damp metal and old oil. Snow crunches lightly beneath our boots where it’s gathered in drifts beside pallets and dumpsters.
Mikel stops near the door and studies the padlock.
“It’s new,” he notes.
“New locks on old doors,” I reply. “That’s always interesting.”
Karp moves to the side wall and tests the seam near a service entrance. He doesn’t force it, just checks the give. It’s reinforced. Someone spent money here.
I look up at the roofline. There are no cameras visible. That can mean none exist, or that they’re hidden. I lift my phone and call the financial lead who handles the quiet side of our business.
“Freeze the shell accounts tied to this rental chain,” I instruct. “Do it through compliance, not through force, and make it look like an internal audit.”
A pause, then, “Understood.”
“Also,” I add, “flag any outbound transfers linked to Arkady’s usual funnels. I want an alert before money moves, not after.”
“Yes, pakhan.”
I end the call and look at Mikel.
“Put surveillance on Arkady’s captains,” I tell him. “Keep it quiet. I want movement logs, phone logs, and vehicle logs.”
Mikel nods. “And our people?”
“Quiet internal review,” I instruct. “No accusations. Just verification.”
Because if Arkady has help from inside, it won’t come from a man who thinks he’ll be caught in an hour. It will come from someone who believes he’s invisible.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Polina.
I answer quickly.
“The van hits the train yard cameras for twelve seconds,” she tells me. “It turns into the yard, then loses coverage under the overpass, and after that it doesn’t appear on public feeds again.”
“Time stamp?” I request.
She gives it to me, and I commit it to memory. That means they’re in the yard or beyond it, and the yard is a web of private lots and blind space. It’s where someone can hide a vehicle for hours without being noticed, especially if they pay the right guard at the gate.
I look down the block at the bay door, and I let the cold sharpen my focus rather than numb it. Rowan is in this city. Not in theory. Not as a possibility. She’s here, and she’s being held by men who made choices they don’t yet understand.
I step closer to the bay door and run my hand along the frame. The metal is cold enough to sting. There’s a thin, fresh layer of grease near the latch, which means this door has been opened recently.
“Karp,” I murmur.
He steps in close, sets his shoulder against the door, and leans his ear to the metal. After a moment, he eases away and looks at me once.
“Empty,” he tells me.
“Or quiet,” I reply.
“Quiet,” Mikel echoes, and he lifts his hand, signaling the men to reposition.
We don’t break in right now. We don’t rush a building we don’t control, not when Rowan could be inside, and a bad entry could turn leverage into a casualty. Instead, I step back and make the decision that matters.
“Seal the district,” I tell Mikel. “Not with obvious blockades. With eyes. Every exit route watched. Every gate noted. Anyone moving out tonight gets followed.”
“And Arkady?” Mikel prompts.
“Not yet. We tighten his perimeter without revealing we’ve begun. We make his world smaller until he makes a mistake.”
Mikel nods once. He understands restraint, and he understands it won’t last.
We step back from the door and return to the street, the cold already in our lungs. The district goes quiet again as if we were never there, indifferent to the fact that a war has resumed in its shadows.
The estate is lit like a place that expects danger, not one that expects guests.
Security is doubled at every gate, men are posted more closely than usual, vehicles are parked to provide clear lines of sight, and no blind corners are left open.
The driveway is clean where snow has been cleared, but the cold remains in the stone and in the iron fences, and it follows me inside.
The foyer smells faintly of wood polish and the smoke of the fireplace. The warmth should feel like relief. It doesn’t. Warmth is a comfort for people who can rest, and I’m not resting.
A guard meets me near the base of the stairs.
“Pakhan,” he begins.
“Later,” I reply, and I walk past him because the status report can wait.
I’m halfway down the corridor toward my office when the front door opens again and closes. The footsteps that follow aren’t a guard’s.
My sister doesn’t announce herself. She never has.
Anya steps into the hall with her coat still on, hair pulled back, and her expression composed in the way of someone who grew up where panic wasn’t allowed. Her eyes move once across the room, noting the extra men, and the tighter positions, and she doesn’t ask for context.
She meets me near the archway leading into the sitting room.
“What happened?” she asks.
It’s not dramatic. It’s direct, and it requires a direct answer.
“Rowan was taken,” I tell her.
Anya holds still, and then her eyes narrow slightly, not from shock, but as she quickly works through what it means.
“From where?” she asks.
“Two blocks from the hospital. They hit the SUV and pulled her and Lila into a van.”
“Leo?” she continues.
“He’s alive. Hit in the shoulder. Transported to the hospital.”
Anya lets out a slow breath, keeping her reaction quiet. She looks at me the way she always has, direct and unfiltered, seeing more than most people ever do.
“You think it’s Arkady.”
It isn’t phrased as a question. It’s an observation based on how my security perimeter has changed, how my men have repositioned, and how the house feels like it’s waiting for impact.
I don’t confirm it verbally. But I also don’t deny it.
Anya steps closer and touches my arm once, a brief contact that doesn’t attempt comfort so much as connection, the reminder that she’s here and she understands what’s coming.
“You’ll handle it,” she tells me.
“I will,” I confirm.
That’s the full exchange. Anything more would be self-indulgent, and we were never raised to indulge ourselves.
Anya nods once and turns to leave. She doesn’t ask for details or ask what she can do. She trusts that I’m already moving, and she knows that if I need her, I’ll call.
The door closes behind her a few minutes later, and the estate returns to its tight, guarded quiet. I step into my office and shut the door. The room is warm, lit by a desk lamp and the low glow of a fire that’s nearly down to embers. My phone is already in my hand before I sit.
I call Mikel. He answers on the second ring.
“Update,” I instruct.
“We have eyes on the exits,” he replies. “We have watchers on Arkady’s captains. No movement yet that looks like a victory lap.”
“And the warehouse?” I prompt.
“Quiet,” Mikel answers. “Too quiet. It feels staged as a decoy, or like a transfer point they’ve already cleared.”
I consider that, and the unease from earlier morphs into focus, not as certainty, but as a problem to solve.
“Begin tightening Arkady’s perimeter. Keep it invisible. I want pressure, not noise.”
“Understood, pakhan,” Mikel replies.
I end the call and sit back, my hands resting on the edge of the desk, listening to the quiet of the estate and the distant movement of guards in the corridor outside.
Rowan is out there, awake or unconscious, restrained or fighting, and she’s in a situation that was designed for her body to be movable.
My mind keeps returning to one detail Leo gave me, the simplest line in the chaos.
She fought.
I stare at the dark window beyond my desk, the winter night sitting just beyond the glass, and I don’t make promises out loud because promises don’t find people. And I don’t waste time on vows. Instead, I begin setting a plan in motion.