Chapter 14 Luka #2
I test the main loading door handle. Locked, as expected. I jerk my chin at one of the younger guards, who hurries forward with a slim case. He pops it open, selects a tool, and goes to work on the side entrance lock with sure hands.
While he works, I rest my palm on Vega’s flank. The dog’s breathing has changed, a little faster, his body humming with restrained energy. He does not whine or pace. He waits.
The lock clicks. The guard eases the handle down and looks at me.
I nod once. “Albert, with me. Kolya, take right. The rest hold the exterior and do not shoot each other.”
Kolya smirks for half a second, then melts into position along the wall.
I draw my pistol, press my shoulder to the doorframe, and meet Vega’s eye. “Guard,” I murmur.
He slips inside first, silent, a shadow with teeth. I follow.
The smell hits me first. Dust, old oil, stale air.
The warehouse interior opens wide around us, rows of metal shelves running parallel to the long walls, some stacked with boxes, others empty.
Fluorescent lights hang overhead, only a handful of them lit, spreading uneven pools of weak illumination and leaving plenty of dark pockets between.
Vega moves ahead in a low stalk, his paws making almost no sound on the concrete. His ears pivot, tracking every noise. His tail hangs low, not wagging. This is work.
To the left, Albert takes the edge, his gun up, and eyes scanning. Kolya slips between two shelving units on the right, covering that angle.
I hear voices before I see faces. A murmur from the back, distorted by distance and the echo of the space. Laughter follows, harsh and ugly, cutting through the hum of one dying light. Vega’s head snaps toward the sound, and a low growl vibrates through him.
We move closer, using the shelves as cover. My heart pushes hard against my ribs, not from fear but from the knowledge that every step brings me closer to either Hope or another dead end.
As we near the last row, a figure steps into view at the far end of the aisle. He has a rifle resting across his chest, his attention on something off to his right. He wears a jacket I recognize from a past surveillance photo. He’s one of Ray’s men.
I raise my gun, the sight locking onto his chest. Before I can pull the trigger, Vega explodes forward.
The dog crosses the distance in a blur of motion, claws scraping briefly on the concrete as he launches.
The guard manages to twist, mouth opening to shout, but Vega hits him full in the torso, eighty pounds of muscle and training.
They crash to the floor. Vega’s teeth clamp onto the man’s forearm, right where he holds the weapon.
Bones crunch, and the rifle clatters away.
“Contact,” Kolya calls from the other side, voice tight in my ear, right as someone further in the warehouse swears and grabs for their gun.
I use the distraction. I step out from behind the shelf and fire twice. One man near the back staggers, his own gun half-raised, then crumples. Another dives behind a crate, bullets chewing into the cardboard as Albert opens up from my left.
Chaos erupts. Shouts. Gunshots. The echo in the warehouse's metal shell turns every sound into a roar.
Vega drives the man beneath him onto his back.
The guard tries to reach for a pistol at his hip with his free hand, eyes wide, sweat suddenly visible on his forehead.
Vega releases the ruined arm only to surge higher, jaws closing around the man’s throat before he can cry out.
When Vega tears away, the movement is quick and brutal.
Blood spills in a dark rush. The man gurgles once and goes still.
“Good boy,” I breathe, not taking my eyes off the battlefield.
A bullet rips through a shelf near my head, showering me with splinters of wood and dust. I pivot, returning fire toward the muzzle flash I caught near a stack of crates. Someone curses and drops behind cover.
“Three targets down,” Misha’s voice crackles in my ear. “Two moving toward the rear exit. I am on them.”
Kolya darts across an open gap and slides behind a concrete support column, rifle up. He takes aim and fires a controlled burst that drops one of the fleeing figures in the back. The second man jerks, looks down at his partner, and bolts in another direction, choosing survival over loyalty.
I move forward, Vega loping at my side now, his fur along his spine ruffled, his teeth still stained red. The dog glances up at me, eyes bright with focus, then turns his attention back to the shadows ahead. As we round the last row of shelves, I finally see him.
Ray.
He stands near a stack of crates with a pistol in his hand, eyes wild, his hair disheveled as if he has been tugging on it. He wears the same smirk I’ve seen in photos, but it falters when his gaze lands on Vega and me.
“Barinov,” he drawls, trying for casual arrogance and not quite managing it. He lifts his gun, but the barrel wobbles a fraction. His hand is not as steady as he wants it to be.
I aim center mass, the sight lined up clean, my chest tight with every memory of Sage’s face while she cried for Hope. “Drop the weapon,” I tell him, my voice low. “You know how this ends if you do not.”
He snorts, though the sound cracks. “You think I’m scared of you?”
“I think you should be more scared of what happens if you die before you tell me where Hope is,” I reply. The words taste like iron.
His eyes flash with what passes for amusement. “You actually care,” he observes, head tipping slightly. “That’s almost sweet.”
Behind him, one of his remaining men twists, trying to find an angle. Kolya spots the movement and fires. The man jerks, his shot going wide, and collapses against the crate with a grunt. In the same second, Ray’s hand tightens on his trigger.
The gun jumps. Pain lances across my upper arm, hot and sudden, as the bullet grazes through flesh. I stagger a step, my teeth clenching, then fire.
My shot hits him high in the chest. Not the center mass I aimed for, but close enough.
Ray’s eyes go wide. He stumbles back into the crate stack, the impact sending a small box tumbling to the floor at his feet.
His fingers lose their grip on the gun, and it drops, clattering across the concrete.
Vega lunges, a low, menacing growl rolling out of him as he plants himself between Ray and the fallen weapon.
Blood spreads across Ray’s shirt, blooming under his hand as he clamps it to the wound. He slides down the crate until he hits the floor, his breath coming harder now, each inhale dragging through him.
“Fuck,” he spits, then laughs, a wet sound that rasps on the exhale. “You always were trigger happy.”
“You shot first,” I remind him as I move closer, my gun still trained on him. The pain in my arm throbs, but it can wait. “Congratulations. You will get to brag about that in whatever hell you end up in.”
He tilts his head back against the crate and studies me through half-lidded eyes, as if cataloging me. “You actually came yourself,” he notes. “No pawn, no disposable soldier. Just the king.”
“Queens are the ones you do not understand,” I counter, thinking of Sage, and the way she looks at me like she both trusts me and expects me to betray her in the same breath. “Where is Hope?”
Ray exhales something like a weak chuckle. “Straight to it. No small talk.”
My patience thins. I step closer until my boots are nearly touching his. Vega sits at my side now, his attention fixed entirely on Ray, ready to move at a single word. I crouch, bringing my face level with his.
“This is your last chance to do anything that even resembles something human,” I tell him, my voice low enough that only he and the dog hear. “Tell me where she is.”
He looks from me to Vega, then back again. “You brought your monster,” he observes quietly. “Fitting. I brought mine too.”
“What are you talking about?” I press.
He winces as another spasm of pain hits. When it passes, he licks blood from his lip and lets his head rest more heavily against the crate. “You think this was just me,” he murmurs. “You think I had the resources to snatch a girl from under your nose and hold her this long on my own.”
“You had help,” I acknowledge. “You had Sokolov backing. We figured that part out a while ago.”
He grins, teeth red. “Then you know the real fun has not even started.”
I grab his jacket collar and haul him forward an inch, ignoring the way my own arm protests. “Who is calling the shots?”
He meets my eyes, and for a second, the smirk falls away. There is pity there instead, which makes my stomach turn.
“You really do not know,” he whispers. “No one has told you that Isaak was never as clever as he thought.”
My grip tightens. “Speak.”
“The head of the Sokolov family will not give up until you are on your knees,” he breathes. “He has waited years for this. You killed me tonight, but you did exactly what he wanted.”
Cold moves through me in a slow, creeping wave. “Who?” I grind out. “Give me a name.”
He laughs again, but the sound breaks into a cough, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. “Ask the man she calls family,” he chokes out.
My mind races through names and faces, but he gives no more. His eyes start to lose focus, his pupils blown wide. His hand, the one pressing against his chest, slackens.
I pull him closer, ignoring the blood that soaks into my vest. “Where is Hope?” I demand, each word pushed out like a threat and a plea at once. “You owe her that much.”
He gives a small, broken smile that does not reach his eyes. “I do not owe anyone a goddamn thing,” he rasps. “And neither does he.”
His head lolls, his breath shuddering once more, then stopping. The tension drains from his body, leaving dead weight in my hands.
For a long moment, the battle noise recedes at the edges of my awareness, like a tide pulling back. All I hear is the drum of my own pulse in my ears and the faint hum of a dying light overhead.