Chapter 5
LUKA
“Talk,” I order.
My hand clamps around the back of the man's skull, my fingers buried deep in his hair as I force his face toward the dirt floor.
His breath strikes the ground in uneven bursts, small clouds rising from his lips as he trembles under the cold.
Dust clings to the blood smeared across his cheek, dark streaks mixing with the grime already coating his skin.
The barn groans under the pressure of the wind sliding across the ridge, the boards creaking as if they want no part of the truth about to be dragged out of him.
Vega stands to my right with his shoulders stiff and his ears pinned forward, the low growl in his throat vibrating through the air until the man beneath my grip freezes again. The sound reverberates off the wooden walls, filling the space with a warning that needs no translation.
His wrists are bound behind him with zip ties that bite into his skin.
His knees sink deeper into the cold dirt with each shallow breath.
Fear works through him in small spasms, twisting his muscles into tiny shudders he tries to hide.
I watch the tremor travel up his spine and see the way his shoulders hunch inward as if he could fold himself into nothing.
The smell of old hay mixes with sweat, creating stale, heavy air that drags along the walls.
I lean my weight into my grip, forcing his face closer to the ground.
His cheekbone presses into the dirt, and I hear the small hitch in his breathing when he realizes he cannot move.
“You understand what happened on that road. You understand men died because of you, and you understand what I am asking.” My voice stays low, stripped of anything that might sound like hope or mercy.
“I didn’t know,” he mutters, his words tumbling out, muffled by the dirt pressing against his mouth. “I didn’t know it would be like that. We were told to block the road. Nothing more.”
His voice shakes on the last two words, desperation bleeding through despite his attempt to sound convincing. I study the way his fingers curl behind his back, his nails scraping uselessly against the plastic binding his wrists. He wants me to believe his ignorance absolves him. It does not.
“Who told you?” I demand.
His jaw tightens. The muscles in his neck cord as he tries to twist his face away, but Vega steps closer with a rumble that vibrates in the earth beneath us.
The dog moves with slow and sure steps, guided by instinctive caution, each paw placed with intention.
The man stiffens instantly, his entire body going rigid under the threat.
His breathing grows ragged, each inhale dragging through his teeth louder than the last.
I jerk his head upward by his hair and press the barrel of my gun to the side of his skull.
The metal touches his skin with a soft click as I thumb back the hammer.
His breathing changes immediately, transforming from ragged gasps into harsh, panicked wheezes.
A bead of sweat rolls down his temple despite the freezing air filling the barn.
“You will answer correctly this time,” I tell him.
He tries to wet his lips. They tremble too much for him to finish the motion. His tongue darts out once, then retreats. “Sokolov,” he mutters finally, the name breaking on his exhale. “They told us to light one truck. Enough for smoke and attention.”
The confession spills out of him in broken pieces, like a man pushing words past the edge of panic. His voice rises slightly on the last syllable, a question hidden inside the statement as if he hopes giving me this much will buy him time.
“And payment?” I continue, adjusting my grip on his hair. “Who funneled it to you?”
“Courier. Rail yard. No names. Unmarked envelopes.” The words come faster now, tumbling over each other in his rush to comply.
A weak attempt at a clean trail. Sokolov operations always rely on half-truths and cowards who think anonymity will save them. They build their networks on layers of separation, believing distance protects them from consequences. It never does.
I ease the gun behind his skull instead of his temple. The slight adjustment is small, but his entire body locks at the movement. His spine goes ramrod straight, and I feel the tremor intensify where my fingers still grip his hair.
“Please,” he breathes, the word cracking down the middle. “I told you everything I know.”
“No.” I lower my voice until it reaches the space between us. “You told me scraps. The men you helped murder deserved more than scraps.”
His next inhale stutters, hitching somewhere in his chest before releasing in a broken wheeze. His shoulders pull inward as if he could retreat into himself, but there is nowhere left to go. The dirt offers no escape. Vega watches without blinking.
I pull the trigger. The sound breaks through the barn in one sharp echo that reverberates off the rafters and fades into the night.
His body falls limp, his muscles releasing all at once as gravity claims him.
Dust drifts in a soft burst around him, tiny particles reflecting what little moonlight filters through the gaps in the boards.
I wipe the barrel of the gun against the dead man's jacket, the fabric smearing the last of the blood across his back in dark streaks. The silence that follows is cold and clean. It always is in the moments where truth and consequence meet. There is a clarity in finality that nothing else provides.
Vega moves back to my side and brushes against my knee, his warmth seeping through the fabric of my pants. His dark eyes track my face, reading everything I do not let my voice reveal. He knows me better than most people ever will.
“We are finished,” I murmur, pressing my palm briefly to his head before turning away. His fur is thick and soft under my touch.
Albert steps forward from the shadows. I give him a brief nod. “Take the body and clean the room. Nothing remains.”
The barn door groans as I push it open, the hinges protesting with a metallic shriek. The cold air burns my lungs on the first inhale, but I welcome the sensation. It clears my head and strips away the lingering smell of sweat and death that clings to the inside of the barn.
I cross the yard with Vega at my heel, his paws leaving shallow prints in the thin layer of snow covering the ground.
Smoke from the cabin chimney lifts into the sky in thin twisting ribbons, gray against the black above.
The warmth waiting inside pulls at a dull place in my chest, a place I refuse to name or examine too closely.
I have learned not to soften toward comforts that can be taken away.
Inside, the air greets me with heat and the familiar scents of cedar and coffee.
The smell wraps around us as I close the door behind me, shutting out the cold.
Vega shakes off a sprinkling of snow that has gathered on his coat and trots deeper into the cabin, heading instinctively for the bedroom where he knows Sage is resting.
His nails click against the stairs in an even rhythm.
I head for the bathroom down the hall, the one with the narrow sink and harsh overhead light.
Blood stains cling stubbornly to my hands, streaks of dark red caught beneath my nails.
I turn on the faucet and watch the cold water rush over my skin before I begin scrubbing.
The color thins to pink and slips into the drain in slow spirals.
I focus on each finger, the spaces between them, and the creases of my palms where the blood settled the deepest.
I brace my palms on the counter for several seconds after the water runs clear, keeping my breathing even, and letting the quiet settle back into me.
The porcelain is cool under my hands. I focus on that sensation until my pulse slows to its normal rhythm.
The bathroom feels too small and bright, so I step into the hall and move toward the kitchen.
Boots hit the porch with a heavy, familiar thud.
Nikolay pushes open the front door without knocking, the cold trailing in behind him like an uninvited guest. His dark hair is dusted with snow, the white flakes melting down the collar of his coat and leaving wet trails on the fabric.
His eyes move quickly through the room, noting details he has learned to read from years of watching how I operate.
Anya steps in behind him, closing the door with more care than her twin ever bothers with.
Her posture remains elegant and composed, shoulders back and chin level, but her eyes lock on the blood still clinging to my cuff despite my attempts to clean myself.
Nikolay lifts an eyebrow, his mouth pulling into an expression caught between amusement and resignation. “You are bleeding into the floorboards again. This place was meant to be calm, if I recall correctly.”
“Calm does not keep enemies afraid,” I reply as I pull a towel from the counter and dry my hands slowly. “Report.”
Anya steps forward and pulls a folder from inside her coat, laying it on the table. Her fingers remain sure even though her eyes hold more worry than she wants to reveal. The folder is thick, stuffed with papers and photographs. She doesn’t open it yet, waiting for my full attention.
“We tracked the hijacking through three suppliers,” she informs me, her voice quiet but firm. “Two are suddenly unavailable. The third pretends he does not understand Russian or English.”
Nikolay snorts softly, the sound colored with derision. “He must want to lose a few fingers.”
Anya shoots him a look that could cut marble, her green eyes narrowing in warning. “The suppliers are nervous because the Italians are spreading whispers that the Barinovs have grown soft. They are using the attack as proof.”