Chapter 18
Roman
My driver waited by the car, engine purring, headlights cutting through the dark outside. I was halfway across the marble floor on the ground floor of my building when my phone vibrated in my hand.
Orlov.
I answered on the first ring. “Talk to me.”
“I found them,” he said without ceremony.
I could hear the keys clicking under his fingers, a quick, staccato rhythm that matched the pulse in my throat.
“That picture you sent me, it took some work, but I figured it out. They’re still in Dubai, in an industrial zone, Port Rashid perimeter.
Specifically, an unfinished section of the dry-dock reclamation yards. Hangar fifteen.”
I stepped out into the night, the city’s humid air washing over me. “How do you know?”
“The skyline in the window gave it away,” Orlov said.
“That cylindrical tower behind them, it’s the Al Habtoor Business Centre.
To the left, you’ve got a construction crane from the new marina project.
The angle and the light tell me the photo was taken facing northwest, late afternoon.
Based on the window height and known building permits, there’s only one cluster of structures that fit those sightlines. ”
“And that is?”
“An old cargo inspection site,” he said. “Someone used it a few years back as a supply cache before the city shut it down. The building has a clear line of sight to the skyline you sent me—ten, maybe twelve stories high. Whoever’s holding them knew exactly where to vanish.”
I exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the phone. “Send me the coordinates.”
“You’ll have them in thirty seconds. And Roman—”
“What?”
“I know who you’re dealing with. This group that you mentioned, Revenant, well, they don’t leave witnesses. If you’re going in, go hard, and go now.”
The line clicked dead.
I slid into the back seat, the driver glancing up in the rearview mirror. “Where to, sir?”
“Port Rashid,” I said. “Industrial zone. Dry-dock reclamation yards. Fast.”
The car lurched forward, tires squealing on the pavement. I stared out the window as the lights of the city fell behind us and the road to the port stretched ahead.
It was 11:43 p.m.
It was time to make some calls.
Nadia was first.
She answered on the second ring, her voice flat and serious. Nadia ran our signals team—cell scramblers, drone feeds, the kind of woman who could make a whole neighborhood look like a dead zone to the wrong eyes.
“Nadia. I need a bubble,” I said. “Port Rashid, hangar fifteen. Blackout on civilian channels all around the perimeter. I need comms clean for thirty minutes starting 23:55. Can you make it look like a power surge?”
A soft humph was the closest Nadia got to a chuckle. “You always have a flair for the dramatic, Roman. I’ll put a blackout in the nearest relay. You’ll get white noise for twenty minutes; anything beyond that and we’ll get the kind of attention we don’t want.”
“Do it.”
My next call was to Jules. He was French and had the steadiest hands I’ve ever seen, longest-sighted shooter we had across Europe and the Gulf. “Jules. I need you tonight. You and two others. You good to go?”
“Always,” he said. “Coordinates?”
“Sent. You take your pick of cover. I’ll ping you with the location.”
I called Hassan and sent him the coordinates next. He was our fixer and could acquire whatever I needed when I needed it. “Get me two vans, dark, small plates. Then get me some drivers who don’t ask questions.”
Hassan’s voice was immediate. “On my way. I’ll meet you fifteen minutes out.”
The list rolled on, Sadiq for the diversion on the north approach; Laila for medical and extraction triage, as well as a few others just to cover all my bases.
My driver cut a corner, and the industrial docks rose up before us. I saw piles of stacked cranes, sleeping warehouses, and the occasional blue glow of a security light.
I texted Nadia a green-ring emoji—our signal to start the blackout countdown. She answered with a single checkmark. Jules pinged a photo of the west roof, crosshairs mapped in charcoal. Hassan sent ETA for vans: five minutes.
At 11:50 the driver rolled to a stop two blocks out. We killed the lights. Through the windshield I watched men move like ghosts. Hassan’s vans slipped into place, Jules’ crew vanished behind parapets. I opened the car door as Nadia’s blackout rolled over us.
I slid out. My team assembled around me, their faces all gleaming with the same hard calm that was rolling through me.
I checked my phone—11:54.
“Remember,” I said, voice barely above a whisper, “no fireworks unless I say. Move like you don’t want to be seen. We get them and go.”
We moved like a single unit. By the time we reached the perimeter, the hulks of hangars loomed like sleeping beasts.
My hands were steady. My heart, stupidly though, wasn’t. Then I thought of the one thing I’d never admit: I was finally angry enough to stop letting others clean up after me.
It was time to handle things myself.
We crept past the first line of containers, each one stacked like coffin blocks under the floodlights. There, waiting for us in the center of the open yard, were the people who’d stolen Dmitri and Kara.
There was a woman standing there, and I could only assume it was the one who’d left the message on my phone, Katya. She stood there in a long black coat and when I cleared my throat, she turned her head suddenly and her gaze fell on me.
“Roman Markov,” she said, her tone a lazy drawl that didn’t quite hide the tremor beneath it. “Apparently, you’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”
“I get that a lot.”
I stopped a few paces away, letting my people form a half-circle behind me. “Where are my brother and the girl?”
Her smile faltered, just a little. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Well,” I retorted, annoyed and a little bit nervous now, “here I am.”
Then a few men stepped out from the shadows, and I recognized them at once.
To Katya’s left, a lean figure lit a cigarette and grinned. Viktor Dragunov of the Dragunov Bratva, one of three brothers that ruled a dynasty in their own right here in Dubai. My family had never had any direct conflict with them, but they’d never quite been our allies either.
Him being here right now surprised me quite a bit. I didn’t like surprises.
The Dragunovs were old-school Bratva—Russian through and through.
They weren’t the kind of family you saw in slick suits and penthouse boardrooms, although they’d play the part if they needed to.
They had a reputation for keeping things simple: no theatrics, no mercy, no second chances.
When they showed up, people died cleanly and quietly.
Beside him stood Grigor Petrov, the Dragunovs’ advisor. Grigor was older, built like a dockworker, with the eyes of a man who’d spent a lifetime working through every angle of life and death.
A third man lingered at the edge of the yard, face half-lit by the glow of a tablet.
He wasn’t a Dragunov by blood but might as well have been.
His name was Demyan Vostrikov, their tech man: a codebreaker and surveillance expert who’d made a fortune turning firewalls into open doors.
He was quiet and incredibly efficient, from what I’d heard, and probably already listening to half the conversations in Dubai.
If Dmitri could have him on our payroll, I’m sure he would.
“Roman Markov, huh,” Viktor said with a heavy Russian accent and an almost cheerful tone. “You know, I heard you were prettier. I’m disappointed.”
“That makes me sad,” I drawled.
He smirked. “Awww.”
Grigor didn’t waste time with pleasantries. His gaze pinned me in place, cold and exact. “You come with rifles ready? You misunderstand our hospitality, Markov.”
I smiled, thin and humorless. “Hospitality looks different where I come from. I usually bring wine. You steal my brother.”
Viktor chuckled. “He’s got jokes. I like him already.”
Demyan didn’t look up from his tablet. “The perimeter is already compromised,” he said, his voice mild, almost bored. “Three shooters, west and south line. You’re not hiding as well as you think you are, Markov.”
Katya’s eyes snapped toward him, but I caught the flicker of surprise in hers. She hadn’t known about my men. My lips lifted in the slightest of smirks at her realization.
“Interesting,” I said. “Seems we’re at an impasse.”
Viktor’s grin widened. “A Mexican standoff. Finally. I always wanted to be in one of those.”
Grigor ignored Viktor and narrowed his focus on me. “You should have come here alone.”
“I get lonely,” I replied snidely.
Katya took a careful step forward. “Roman,” she began. “You don’t want to do this here.”
“Then tell me where they are.”
“They’re alive.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I can’t—”
“Try harder.”
Grigor’s expression didn’t change, but his hand lifted. Somewhere in the shadows, the Dragunovs’ men shifted position. My own team responded in kind, scopes tracking, the red dots from their sights cutting through the dark like tiny pinpricks of malicious intent.
The yard became geometry: angles, ranges, and fatal trajectories. One move the wrong way and everything would ignite.
“Enough of this,” I snapped, stepping forward. “You wanted a conversation, fine. Here I am. But you’ll bring my brother and the girl out here now. I need proof that they’re still breathing.”
Katya hesitated, but I cut her off with a glare cold enough to stop the excuses before they even started. I must have been channeling Dmitri. He’d be so proud.
“I’m not negotiating blind, sweetheart. Proof of life. Now.”
She pressed her lips together, defiance flashing across her face. “This isn’t how we do things.”
“This isn’t your show anymore.”
Viktor stepped in front of her, his stance suddenly far more serious, maybe even protective. “No. Stop it right there. You don’t get to give her orders,” he snarled. “You’re standing on our ground. You want something, you ask nicely.”
“Fine,” I said, keeping my tone calm and controlled. “Then I’m asking you, Viktor. Bring them out.”
“Tell me something, Roman,” he said, pacing a slow half-circle in front of me, hands buried in his pockets. “You always walk into other people’s business this confident, or is tonight just extra special?”
Behind him, Katya shifted, clearly impatient with his games. Viktor caught the movement and flashed her a wolfish smile. “Don’t scowl, dorogaya. He came all this way to talk, let him enjoy himself.”
“Charming as your company is, I’m not here for enjoyment,” I said. “I’m here for my brother and the girl. Nothing else.”
That made him laugh. “See? That’s the trouble with you Markovs. No pleasantries, just business, business, business. Everything’s a deal or a dead body.”
I smiled without humor. “That’s rich, coming from a Dragunov. Last I checked, you built your empire on both.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Touché. Maybe we’re not so different.”
“Just bring them out.”
The grin faded just a little at that, replaced by a serious, more assessing edge. “You’ve got balls, Roman. I’ll give you that. You walk in here like you’re untouchable, knowing half the city’s got rifles aimed at your head.”
I tilted my head, letting a slow smile pull at my mouth. “Please. Half the city’s been trying to kill me since I was old enough to shave. The rest just want to see if I’ll flinch.”
Viktor huffed out a laugh, the sound cutting through the tension. “You don’t flinch, do you?”
“Not for free,” I quipped.
That did it. For the first time, his laughter was unexpectedly genuine. “I like you,” he said finally, flicking his cigarette into the sand. “Fine. Let’s give the man his proof of life before we all die of boredom.”
He turned, raising his hand in a casual gesture. “Grigor, fetch our guests. And be polite this time, yeah?”
Grigor and a few of his men peeled away into the maze of containers, leaving Viktor standing in the open between me and Katya, grin returning like it had never left.
“Happy now, Markov?” he asked.
“Not even close,” I said.
“Perfect,” he murmured, lighting another cigarette.