Chapter 2 #2
Misha moves like a shadow behind the overturned trailer. He spots another gunman creeping toward Albert’s side. Two clean shots. The man drops and rolls into the brush, still clutching his weapon.
Nikolay advances from the opposite side. He kneels beside a patch of weeds, levels his rifle, and fires once. A figure in the trees loses its shape and collapses.
The gunfire fades, and the hillside breathes again. Whoever planned this ambush expected panic, not return fire. I spot another flash near a granite outcrop and signal with two fingers. Albert’s man pivots, fires, and silence follows.
For a moment, the only sound is the soft pop of burning tires and the echo of my pulse. Smoke drifts low across the road. I drag in a breath that tastes like rubber.
“Hold positions,” I order, climbing the guardrail. Frost makes the rocks slick. I move downhill carefully, one hand braced against the trees. The air carries the sting of explosives under the cleaner scent of sap. Then, beneath it, the quiet exhale of another person.
I find him crouched behind a boulder, pale and shaking, blood already soaking his sleeve. He lifts his rifle. I fire first. The shot spins him sideways into the rock, and his weapon clatters to the dirt.
I step closer and press my boot to his chest. “Who hired you?”
His teeth flash in a snarl. “The road’s ours now.”
“Names,” I demand, leaning harder. “You executed unarmed drivers. Who pays you for that?”
He reaches for his rifle, and I shoot him in the knee, his scream echoing off the stone.
“That will not kill you,” I tell him evenly. “But the next bullet will.”
He laughs through clenched teeth, then yanks something from his pocket. I grab his wrist and slam it against the rock. A small device falls from his grip. The device is not a detonator. It is a locator tied to something buried under the brush. I toss it uphill toward Misha.
Misha crouches, brushing dirt aside. He uncovers a thin wire leading to a small explosive. “Booby trap,” he mutters. “Would have hit our legs if we rushed in.”
Nikolay appears above with two men and a third body between them. His eyes settle on the one beneath my boot. “Keep him breathing,” he advises. “He will remember this.”
The captive trembles, his pride leaking away. “Sokolov,” he gasps. “They said to make you listen. They said to burn one truck, so you’d know whose territory this belongs to now.”
I step back and draw the knife from my belt, the steel whispering against its sheath.
“You wanted to send a message,” I tell him, my voice dangerously low.
“Now you’ll carry one back.” I seize his wrist and drag him upright.
The knife bites into his forearm, carving two clean lines that cross with a B at their center.
The mark every man who’s crossed me learns to fear.
He screams, voice cracking, but I hold him firm until his blood traces the letter like ink.
“Now they’ll know whose road they touched. ”
Albert calls from the ridge. “Clear up top. Sirens inbound.”
“Collect everything,” I order. “Bodies, shell casings, spike strips, cones. No trace left behind.”
My men move fast. Misha documents the scene, snapping photos and collecting data. Nikolay crouches beside the captive and tilts his chin up. “You will live,” he tells him. “But you will limp for the rest of your life. Let that remind you what crossing us costs.”
The man swallows hard, and the fight drains out of him.
I scan the wreck one final time as the smoke thins, the road strewn with debris and death. Something glints near the first truck. I kneel and brush away soot until a brass medallion appears, half-buried in dirt, etched with the twin eagles of the Sokolov crest.
Misha sees my face and exhales slowly. “They wanted you to find it.”
“They did,” I answer. “And they have my attention.”
Sirens rise through the pass. Albert warns we have two minutes before county units arrive.
“Pack up,” I order. “Get the bodies home. I’ll deal with the uniforms.”
Engines roar to life. The men move with trained coordination, loading what’s left of the wrecked trucks.
A young deputy rounds the bend, flashing lights turning the snowcaps into shards of blue and red glass.
I raise my hand. “Unexploded devices ahead,” I call out.
“Stay back until the hazmat team arrives.” His eyes dart from the smoke to my face, assessing the risk.
He nods, too young and too unsure to argue.
Misha pockets the last data stick and lifts his eyes. “We have to assume they turned our old routes,” he suggests, gesturing toward the cones with a look of contempt. “Someone leaked the schedule or read the pattern.”
“We burn the pattern,” I decide. “We make new ones. No route repeats for thirty days. We write a mirror set that looks real from a distance and we populate it with noise. If they reach for it, we close the door.”
Nikolay’s SUV doors slam, the captive wedged between his men in the back seat. The engine rumbles to life. I tap the hood as he rolls forward, and he dips his chin before driving off.
Albert’s vehicle leaves next with our dead.
Misha and I climb into the lead SUV and turn toward the warehouse. For a few minutes, we let the quiet drive with us. Misha adjusts the heat one click. My hands loosen on the wheel. White-hot rage burns out quickly. I prefer the kind that glows steadily and lasts.
The warehouse cranes rise out of the valley like steel trees as we descend.
The sun drops west, shadows stretching long across the road.
Vega isn’t in the yard when we pull through the gate.
The emptiness hits hard, quiet and honest. He’s resting in a warm room, healing from a bullet he never owed, and I hate that I couldn’t make the world kinder for the one creature who deserved it.
Nikolay waits by my office when I walk in.
He’s already moved the captive downstairs with a medic and two guards who know how to get answers without raising their voices.
He’s sent word to the few people we trust in Seattle to keep an eye on anything that looks off.
A mug of coffee sits in his hand. He offers it without a word.
I take it and drink, not for the heat, but because sometimes small habits are the only solid things left.
Downstairs, the captive breathes too fast. Upstairs, the map glows red where green should be. The road doesn’t belong to them, and it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the men we lost and the ones I refuse to lose again.
I take the medallion from my pocket and let it rest in my palm before setting it on the desk. The brass is dark against the wood, the emblem worn and foreign, tied to everything that still needs to be answered.
“Prep the room,” I tell Misha. “Bring water, a camera, and patience.”
He exhales a short breath. “Patience is not my strong suit.”
“It will be tonight.”
Outside, the mountain sinks into shadow. Inside, the air grows thick with what’s coming. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a hawk cries. Somewhere below, a man waits to learn the price of his choices.