37. The Devil Comes for His Wife
The Devil Comes for His Wife
Roman
Idon’t shout.
I don’t threaten.
I don’t waste time.
The moment the ping hits—faint, buried in signal noise but unmistakable—I move.
“Location,” I say.
Viktor’s fingers fly across the console.
“Industrial district,” he replies. “Old shipping warehouse. Signal’s unstable—but it’s real.”
“Lock it.”
“Done.”
I don’t wait for a plan.
I am the plan.
“Teams mobilized,” Viktor says, already moving beside me. “Perimeter, entry—”
“No perimeter.”
He stops.
“Roman—”
“No perimeter,” I repeat. “We go in. Fast. Clean.”
This isn’t negotiation.
This is extraction.
The city blurs past in black glass and steel.
No sirens.
No lights.
Just speed.
My pulse is steady.
Too steady.
Because anything else would be dangerous.
Because if I let myself feel what this is—
I won’t stop at retrieval.
I’ll burn everything.
The convoy halts before the warehouse.
Dark.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
“Two entrances,” Viktor says. “East and south.”
“East is decoy,” I reply. “We take south.”
He nods once.
“On you.”
I step out.
Weapon already drawn.
The door gives under pressure.
Inside—
Movement.
Gunfire erupts instantly.
Controlled.
Precise.
I don’t hesitate.
I don’t think.
I clear the first room in seconds.
Two down.
No pause.
No mercy.
This isn’t war.
This is retrieval.
“Left corridor,” Viktor calls.
I’m already moving.
Bodies fall.
Shots echo.
The world narrows to one thing—
Find her.
A door ahead.
Reinforced.
Locked.
I don’t slow.
Kick.
Once.
Twice.
The frame splinters.
The door crashes open.
And there—
She’s there.
Bound to a chair.
Bruised.
Alive.
My chest tightens once.
Then locks.
I cross the distance in three steps.
Knife out.
The restraints give under the blade.
My hands—
They’re not steady.
Not completely.
A crack.
Small.
Controlled.
But there.
“Vera.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
Sharp.
Unbroken.
“Roman,” she breathes.
I cut the last binding.
My hand brushes her wrist.
Too tight.
Too marked.
Something inside me shifts.
Dangerously.
“You’re safe,” I say.
The words feel foreign.
But necessary.
Her hand grips mine briefly.
Grounding.
Alive.
Behind me, Viktor clears the room.
“Area secure—”
A click.
Sharp.
Distinct.
I turn.
Orlov stands in the doorway.
Impeccable.
Untouched.
A gun in his hand.
Not pointed at Vera.
Not at me.
At himself.
The barrel rests just beneath his jaw.
“Careful,” he says softly.
The room stills.
Every weapon shifts.
But no one fires.
Because this—
This changes the rules.
“You’ve come a long way,” Orlov continues.
His smile is gone.
For the first time—
He looks serious.
“Drop the gun,” Viktor snaps.
Orlov doesn’t move.
“You won’t shoot,” he says calmly.
My gaze locks onto his.
“Try me.”
“I would,” he replies. “But then you’d lose something far more valuable than me.”
Silence stretches.
Tight.
Controlled.
“Explain,” I say.
He tilts his head slightly.
“The proof,” he says. “The recordings. The accounts. The truth about Luka.”
My chest goes cold.
“You think you’re the only one who records?” he continues.
Vera’s hand tightens slightly in mine.
Good.
She’s listening.
“We’ve both been collecting confessions,” Orlov says. “The difference is… mine survive me.”
The gun presses slightly harder against his jaw.
“One trigger,” he says softly, “and everything disappears.”
The room holds its breath.
Because he’s not bluffing.
He’s too precise for that.
“Shoot me,” Orlov finishes.
His eyes lock onto mine.
“And the proof dies with me.”