Chapter 18
HELENA
The inside of the Sentinel smells of sterile air and expensive leather. It's a scent designed to convince you the world outside can't touch you. It's the kind of safety only affluence can afford.
I sit in the back right seat, spine pressed against the stiff upholstery. The windows are so darkly tinted that the city skyline is reduced to a murky, grayscale blur. I can see the world, but the world can't see me.
Lev is behind the wheel. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are constantly moving.
Beside him sits a guard I've only seen once—a colossal man with a shaved head and a neck as thick as a tree trunk.
His name is Andrei. He has a compact submachine gun resting across his lap, his finger tapping a silent rhythm on the trigger guard.
Beside me in the back is another guard. He's younger, maybe twenty-five, with a scar running through his eyebrow. He doesn't look at me. His eyes dart between the side mirrors and the rear window, scanning for threats.
Silence hangs in the cabin, thick enough to choke on. The only sound is the low hum of the engine and the tires on the asphalt.
"You are quiet, Ms. Director," Lev says, eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
I look up. "It's early, Lev."
"You're worried about him," he says. His tone is calm, but there’s a tightness in his expression I haven’t seen before.
I stiffen. "I'm worried about the shipment."
He turns the wheel, navigating the heavy chassis around a pothole. "He didn't sleep, you know. Before the dinner. He spent three nights mapping the cartels in Venezuela."
I look at his reflection. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because in ten years, I’ve never seen him afraid," he says quietly. "Until he put that ring on your finger. He isn’t sending you to the Depot to inspect a warehouse. He's sending you there because it has three-foot concrete walls and a bunker."
I stare at the back of his head. "He thinks I'm weak."
"No," Lev corrects. "He thinks you’re the only thing he has left to lose."
The words hang heavy in the air, suffocating me. I turn away, pressing my forehead against the glass.
"I’m thinking about the work," I say, forcing my mind to focus on the logistics to drown out Lev's truth.
"If we're retrofitting the North Depot for the Venezuelan cargo, the subterranean levels need more than a new gate. They need climate control. Independent power generators." I look up, keeping my voice steady. "If the grid goes down, the security systems for the shipment can't fail."
Lev nods, turning the fortress on wheels onto the on-ramp for the Industrial Bridge. The engine purrs—a low rumble that vibrates through the floor.
"The Boss has handled the specs," Lev says. "He needs the signature. The authority."
"The authority," I repeat, testing the word.
Konstantin is trusting me to secure the vault while he brings the ship home. The responsibility settles in my chest, heavy and sharp. He trusts me.
"You’re the Director," Lev says, eyes shifting to the side mirror. "It's not just a title, Helena. When you walk into that Depot, you represent the will of the Morozov Bratva. Even the Italians respect the hierarchy. They know not to touch the Crown."
"They might respect the Crown," I say, leaning forward, "but they want the Kingdom, Lev. If they suspect the Venezuelan shipment is coming to us, do you really think a few walls will stop them?"
Lev meets my gaze in the mirror.
He hesitates. "They won't strike the Depot, Mrs. Morozov. They don't even know it's being reactivated. By the time they hear the rumors, the cargo will be inside, and the gates will be shut."
"I hope so," I whisper, looking out at the skyline. "Konstantin is counting on this."
We hit the crest of the on-ramp and merge onto the Narrows—the long, rusted suspension bridge that connects the island to the mainland.
We had to take this route—the main highway was gridlocked by a construction crew blocking two lanes.
Usually, even this detour is a nightmare.
It's the main artery of the city. It should be choked with fuel tankers, eighteen-wheelers, and bumper-to-bumper gridlock. It should be a mess of horns and exhaust fumes.
But today, as the Sentinel levels out onto the bridge, the road is empty.
I frown, leaning closer to the glass. The asphalt stretches out ahead of us for a mile, completely barren. No tankers. No sedans. Just empty gray space framed by the rusted iron girders.
"Lev?" I ask, a knot forming in my stomach. "Where is the traffic? It's rush hour. This bridge should be a parking lot."
Lev glances at the side mirror, then the windshield. His posture shifts instantly. The relaxed driver vanishes, replaced by the soldier.
"It shouldn't be empty," he whispers.
He looks at the GPS. It shows green traffic.
He looks at the road. It’s dead.
"This bridge moves ten thousand containers a day," he says, voice low. "Traffic doesn’t disappear. Someone stopped it. They cleared the board."
I stare at the empty road, a lump lodging in my throat. "Cleared it for what?"
Lev slams the gear shift, downshifting. His eyes lock on the mirror. "For a kill box," he says before screaming, "Brace!"
"Rear sector!" the young guard shouts, voice cracking. "Vehicle approaching! Fast! It came from the maintenance tunnel!"
I turn, pressing my face against the rear glass to see what’s going on.
Behind us, a garbage truck has swung out from a side tunnel. It’s accelerating with black smoke pouring from the stacks. Its front grille looks like rusted iron teeth.
It takes up both lanes, blocking the escape path completely.
"He's closing distance!" the guard yells.
Muzzle flashes erupt from the truck's cab behind us. A hail of rifle fire finds the back of the Sentinel.
Clang.
The sharp, metallic thuds vibrate through my seat as bullets slam into the Sentinel's armor.
The plates are too thick for the rounds to get through. The glass doesn't even crack. They’re shooting at our tank, and the tank is winning.
"The armor is holding!" Lev roars. "Those rounds can't touch us!"
"Front!" Andrei shouts. "Twelve o'clock!"
I look forward.
Fifty yards ahead, a monster emerges from behind a pillar. It’s a yellow front-end loader—mining equipment weighing at least thirty tons. Its tires are taller than a man, rolling into the center of the bridge.
The driver raises the steel bucket high into the air, like a titan raising a hammer.
The machine turns sideways, blocking the entire road.
We’re boxed in.
"Trap!" Lev screams.
He doesn't hit the brakes. He knows we can't stop. If we stop, we're dead.
"Hold on!" he roars.
He aims the Sentinel for the narrow gap between the loader's rear tire and the concrete median.
But the loader driver is one step ahead. As we approach, the machine lurches forward. He slams the hydraulic.
The steel bucket drops. It doesn't just block us. It comes down on top of us.
The impact is tectonic.
The steel bucket slams into the front passenger side of the Sentinel with the force of a meteor.
The sound is deafening—metal tearing, vibrating through my teeth. The armored frame screams under the pressure. This car is built to stop bullets and landmines, but it can’t stop the laws of physics.
A five-ton car can't move a thirty-ton earthmover. The impact lifts our vehicle into the air, and we spin violently.
I’m thrown against the door, head slamming against the glass. The seatbelt locks, cutting into my collarbone, knocking the wind out of me.
We crash onto the asphalt on the driver's side.
The car slides, sparks showering the windshield. We skid for what feels like forever, metal grinding on stone, before crashing into the barrier and stopping.
For a heartbeat, there’s near absolute silence.
Just the hiss of the radiator and the ringing in my ears.
We’re lying on our side. I'm dangling in my seatbelt, blood rushing to my head. The world is sideways.
"Status!" Lev barks. His voice is hoarse. Blood trickles from a gash on his forehead where he hit the steering column.
"Engine dead," Andrei yells from the passenger seat suspended above us. He racks the slide of his gun. "We’re immobile. Structural damage reported."
"Mrs. Morozov!" Lev twists, looking back at me. "Are you hit? Check yourself."
I unbuckle with shaking hands and drop onto the side window. "I... I'm okay. I'm okay."
"Get down!" Lev commands. "Floor! Now!"
I scramble into the footwell, covering my head. My heart drums against my ribs.
"Are we safe?" I ask, tracing the cracks in the windshield. "You said it was a tank. You said nothing could get in."
"Nothing can," Lev says, scanning the side mirrors. "The glass holds against rounds. We sit tight. I'm calling the Quick Reaction Force. They’ll be here in twenty minutes."
He reaches for the radio.
Thwack.
A heavy thud hits the roof.
I look up. The impact didn't just spin us; it twisted the chassis. The Sentinel is tough, but the torque of the crash warped the frame.
Light pokes through. There’s a gap.
Near the roofline, the door frame has buckled. The airtight seal is broken. There’s a jagged, two-inch opening to the outside world.
"Lev," I whisper, pointing. "The seal."
He glances up, face tightening.
"Contact left! Six tangos!" the rear guard shouts. "They aren't shooting! They have jerry cans!"
I peek through the shattered glass. Men in black tactical gear run toward the car. They aren't firing guns. They are splashing liquid over the hood, the vents, and onto the warped door frame.
The smell hits me instantly.
Gasoline.
"Fuel!" Lev screams. "They're burning us out!"
A lighter flickers in the hand of one of the attackers. He tosses it casually onto the hood.
Whoosh.
Flames erupt over the windshield. The orange fire licks up the glass, hungry, seeking the oxygen inside.
"The vents!" Andrei yells, hacking. "Smoke is coming in!"
The fire heats the metal hull in seconds. The temperature spikes as the vehicle transforms from a fortress to a blast furnace.
Thick, black smoke curls through the gap in the roof.