11. Ruslan
RUSLAN
The warehouse is still operating when I arrive.
Trucks come in through the west gate. Men load crates near the far wall. A forklift moves slowly between stacked pallets. Nothing stops because Anton Grekov is tied to a chair in the office above the floor.
That’s how it should be. Business continues. The organization is much bigger than just a single mole.
Stepan meets me at the bottom of the metal stairs. “He’s upstairs,” he says.
“Talking?”
“No. Still saying he’s not the mole.”
“Of course he is.”
Stepan walks beside me as we climb. “Pavel traced the payment account to him.”
“Anton signed it?”
“No. But it went through one of his shell vendors.”
I stop at the landing and look down at him.
Stepan knows what I’m asking. “It’s enough to bring him in,” he says. “Not enough to know if he acted alone.”
That’s the problem.
Anton is not a driver or a collector. He’s a captain.
He knows routes, old drop locations, which cops are dirty, which customs men can be paid off, which warehouses are real and which exist only on paper.
If he sold us, he didn’t just sell one shipment.
He sold the bones of my entire organization, which is a problem when enemies are ready to swoop in from everywhere.
I open the office door.
Anton looks up from the chair. His hands are tied in front of him. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth, but not much. Dima must have hit him once and then remembered I wanted him able to speak.
Pavel stands near the desk with a laptop open. Dima is by the door. Another man, Ilya, watches the window.
Anton smiles when he sees me. “I was wondering when you’d come,” he says.
I take the chair across from him. “Were you?”
“You’ve made a mistake.”
“Then fix it.”
His smile fades.
I lean back. “Tell me who did this.”
“I don’t know.”
“Try again.”
“I don’t know,” he says, harder this time. “I didn’t move the book. I didn’t pay those idiots. I didn’t send men into a public library to shoot at you.”
Pavel turns the laptop toward me. “The payment came through Varn Transport.”
Anton laughs once. “Half the city uses Varn.”
“You own thirty percent through your cousin,” Pavel says.
Anton’s eyes cut to him. “My cousin owns thirty percent. I don’t.”
Stepan puts a folder on the desk. “Your cousin also left town yesterday.”
For the first time, Anton goes quiet.
I look at him. “You see the problem.”
“I see someone setting me up,” he spits.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“That answer gets boring.”
“It’s the truth.”
Dima shifts near the door.
Anton notices, then looks back at me. “If I were the mole, would I still be sitting in the city? Would I leave accounts close enough for your dogs to sniff out? Think, Ruslan.”
“I am.”
Anton laughs, but there’s no confidence in it. “No, you’re not. You already decided.”
“You made it easy.”
“I didn’t do this,” he says.
“Why did your cousin leave the city?” Dima asks.
“I don’t know,” he snaps. “He panicked.”
“Because?”
“Because men started asking questions.”
“Whose men?”
He looks at Stepan, then at Pavel, then at me. “Yours. They’re just looking for a scapegoat to pin the blame on because they were too stupid to protect you.”
“I want you to say the truth.”
“The truth is someone is feeding you just enough to put me in this chair.”
Stepan says, “Convenient.”
Anton turns on him. “You think I’m stupid enough to use a company tied to my own family?”
“I’ve seen smarter men do worse,” Stepan says.
“I’m not one of your dock idiots.”
“No,” I say. “You’re a captain. That makes this worse.”
I stand and walk to the window overlooking the warehouse floor. Below, work has slowed. Men pretend not to look up. They know Anton is here. They know I am here. By morning, every man in the east side will hear some version of this.
That matters.
If Anton betrayed me and I do nothing, I lose more than shipments.
I turn back. “Who had access to the old drop list?”
Anton breathes out hard. “You know who.”
“I want to hear it.”
“You. Stepan. Me. Miro. Two dead men and one retired bookkeeper in Brighton who can barely remember his own name.”
“Miro says he never saw the library entry.”
“Miro says whatever keeps him breathing.”
Stepan’s eyes narrow slightly. “Careful.”
Anton ignores him. “You want a mole? Look at the men who benefit when I’m gone.”
“Names.”
“Miro gets my routes.”
“Miro is too lazy to arrange this.”
“Lazy men can still be greedy.”
“Who else?”
Anton hesitates.
I see it, but I don’t try to drag it out. He’s a desperate man, and a desperate man is capable of anything, or betraying anyone.
Anton leans forward as much as the restraints allow. “I’m telling you, Ruslan. Someone is pushing this toward me because it’s easy. Because I’m close enough to the accounts. Because my cousin is an idiot. But I didn’t move the book, and I didn’t pay those men.”
“Then why run?” I ask.
“Because I knew your men weren’t just looking for me to bring me to a party,” he says, his eyes a little wild now.
“You’re a captain. You could have called me.”
“And say what? I think I’m being framed, please don’t shoot me?”
“That would have been better than running.”
He looks away. The answer is in his face before he says it.
“There’s more,” I say.
Anton’s cheek twitches.
“What did you do?”
He says nothing.
Dima steps closer behind him. Anton’s eyes flick to the movement.
“What did you do?” I ask again.
“I moved money,” he says finally.
Pavel stills.
Stepan’s expression goes flat.
Anton looks at me quickly. “I moved from one of the side accounts to cover a debt.”
“What debt?”
He says nothing.
Dima hits him once across the mouth. The chair jerks. Anton spits blood and curses.
“What debt?” I repeat.
“Cards,” he says, breathing hard. “A private game. It got out of hand.”
“How much?”
He looks ashamed now, which is more useful than fear. “Eight hundred.”
“Thousand?”
His silence answers.
Stepan mutters something under his breath.
I stare at Anton.
Anton lifts his head. “That’s why I ran. I thought this was about the money. I thought you found that.”
“You stole from me.”
“I borrowed.”
“You stole.”
“Yes,” he snaps. “Fine. I stole. But I didn’t sell you out.”
For a moment, I almost believe him.
Then Pavel says, “The drive.”
Everyone turns.
Pavel bends near the desk and pulls a small black USB from his bag. “Found in Anton’s car. Behind the glove box.”
Anton frowns. “That’s not mine.”
Pavel plugs it into the laptop. A few clicks. Then he turns the screen toward me. The library blueprints, with all the sections covered, and the books we use for the drop marked.
Anton stares at the screen. The blood leaves his face. “That’s not mine,” he says again, quieter now.
I look at him.
“That’s not mine,” he repeats. “Ruslan, listen to me. I have never seen that.”
Stepan comes around the desk and looks at the files. His jaw tightens. “This is enough to burn the east side.”
Anton starts pulling against the ties. “No. No, someone put that there.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I don’t know!” he shouts.
The warehouse floor below goes quieter.
Anton hears it too. He lowers his voice, but panic has him now. “Think. Why would I keep that in my car where anyone could find it?”
No one answers.
He looks at me. “Ruslan. Listen to me.”
I don’t move.
“That is not mine,” he says. “I swear on my mother’s grave, that is not mine.”
Stepan says, “Your mother is alive.”
Anton’s face twists. “Fuck you.” He turns to me. “I moved money, yes. I stole, yes. Fine. Put a bullet in me for that if you want. But I never betrayed you.”
Dima steps closer behind him. “Then sit still and answer.”
Anton turns his head, eyes wild. “Easy for you to say.”
“It is.”
The words do something to Anton. I see it happen. A man can sit with fear only so long before he chooses something stupid because stupid feels better than helpless. Anton looks at the laptop, then at Pavel, then at the office door.
Then at Dima’s gun.
“Anton,” I say.
His eyes snap back to mine.
“Don’t.”
For one second, I think he hears me.
Then he moves.
He throws his whole weight sideways, chair and all. The metal legs shriek against the floor. Dima reaches for him, but Anton has already twisted one wrist loose enough to rip free. He hits the ground hard, rolls into Dima’s legs, and grabs for the gun at Dima’s hip.
Dima curses.
Pavel shouts something.
Anton gets the gun. Not like a trained man making a move. More like an animal clawing out of a trap. But he gets it.
“Down!” Stepan yells.
The first shot goes into the desk. The sound punches through the office and kills every noise in the warehouse below.
Pavel drops behind the metal filing cabinet. Stepan pulls me sideways by the shoulder as another shot cracks past us and hits the window. Glass bursts inward, scattering across the floor.
Dima lunges for Anton.
Anton fires again.
Dima jerks back with a shout, clutching his arm.
Anton scrambles backward, still half dragging the loosened tie from one wrist, gun shaking in both hands. His face is white with panic. “Stay back!” he shouts.
No one moves toward him.
He swings the gun from Dima to Pavel to Stepan, then to me. His hand shakes so badly the barrel wavers. “I didn’t do it,” he says, voice breaking. “You hear me? I didn’t fucking do it.”
“Put the gun down,” I say.
He laughs once, too high. “So you can finish this quietly?”
“So you don’t die like an idiot.”
“I’m already dead.”
“Not yet.”
His eyes flick toward the door. That’s when I know he’s going to run.
“Anton,” I say again.
He fires at me. Stepan drags me down behind the crate beside the desk. The bullet tears through the wall where my chest was a second ago.
Dima goes for his backup weapon with his good hand. Pavel stays low, one hand pressed to his ear from the noise. Men are shouting below now, boots hitting concrete, but no one has a clear angle from the floor.
Anton backs toward the door, gun raised. “I didn’t sell you out!” he shouts.
Then he turns and runs.
He gets two steps into the doorway.
Ilya is coming up the stairs. He must have been posted outside the office. He hears the shots, reaches the landing, and sees Anton rushing out with Dima’s gun in his hand.
Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “Drop it!” he shouts.
Anton lifts the gun instead.
Ilya fires once.
Anton’s body snaps backward. He hits the metal railing hard, one hand clutching at the air, the gun slipping from his fingers and clattering down the stairs. For a second, he stays upright only because the railing catches him.
Then his knees fold. He drops onto the landing.
I step out from behind the crate. Stepan rises beside me. Pavel pushes himself up slowly. Dima is breathing hard through his teeth, blood running down his sleeve, but he’s standing.
Ilya keeps his gun trained on Anton. “Don’t move,” he says, though Anton is already barely moving.
I cross the office and step onto the landing. Anton is on his back now, staring up at the warehouse roof. His mouth opens like he wants to speak.
I crouch beside him. His eyes find mine. There is fear there, and anger. And something else.
Maybe desperation. Maybe the truth.
“I…” he manages.
Blood fills his mouth.
I wait.
He tries again.
Nothing comes. His hand twitches once against the metal floor. Then he’s gone.
I stay crouched for another second, looking at him.
Dead.