3. Vladimir
Vladimir
The cold Philadelphia air bites at my face as I crouch behind a stack of rusted shipping containers, the metallic tang of saltwater, oil, and rotting fish filling my lungs.
The stench clings to everything—an unholy mix of decay and industry.
Midnight creeps closer, the only illumination coming from the flickering floodlights overhead and the full moon casting its silver reflection on the dark, rippling water.
Konstantin adjusts the rifle scope, his massive frame unnaturally still as he scans the scene below.
Even in the dim light, I see the sharp concentration in his gaze, the way his muscles coil like a predator poised to strike.
“Six near the van, two by the ship. Armed. Idiots still haven’t noticed us. ”
Dimitri wipes the condensation from his binoculars, muttering under his breath. “They’re moving fast. Someone wants this shipment wrapped before sunrise.”
“Eight men. A cargo full of victims.” My voice is low and clipped. “Whoever set up this trade route is someone we’ve done business with before. It never even touched our radar—and we use some of the same docks.”
Dimitri snorts quietly. “Look at that one—he’s smoking while handling people like cargo. Who does that?”
“Focus, Dima,” Konstantin growls, lowering his scope. He casts me a glance. “So, boss. What’s the move? We hit now, or wait?”
I don’t answer immediately. My eyes track the men unloading their cargo—women with zip-tied wrists and terror-stricken faces, forced forward under the cruel grip of their captors. A flicker of rage surges in my gut, familiar and dangerous.
I force it down. Anger has its place, but precision wins battles.
“Let them finish unloading,” I say. “Once they’re exposed, we move.”
Dimitri leans back against the container, clearly itching for action. “Always so patient, Vlad. Do you ever consider loosening up? Life’s short.”
“Not if you just keep your mouth shut,” Konstantin mutters dryly.
Dimitri smirks, eyes gleaming. “Remind me again, Konstantin—how’s your pride holding up? Still twitching every time someone mentions tranquilizer darts?”
Konstantin’s jaw ticks. “You really want to go there? Right now?”
“Oh, I’m already there,” Dimitri grins. “I mean, you got dropped like a toddler learning to walk. By one dart. From an assassin clearly half your size.”
“She ambushed me,” Konstantin snaps, his grip tightening on the rifle. “And it wasn’t just a tranquilizer?—”
“It was literally a dart, big guy,” Dimitri says, snickering. “You went down like a sedated bear.”
Konstantin turns slowly, towering over him. “Keep talking, and I’ll give you a matching nap.”
I cut in, my voice flat. “You two done measuring your dicks, or should I give you both a timeout?”
Dimitri holds up his hands, grinning. “Alright, alright. No more dart jokes … for now.”
The familiar crack of a silenced gunshot slices through the air—sharp, final. One of the men near the docks crumples, blood pooling beneath him.
Another shot. Another body falls.
“What the hell?” Dimitri whispers, snapping his binoculars up.
Then, we see movement on the ground.
A shadow, fluid and deadly, weaving through the maze of crates and machinery. Dressed in black, it’s like a ghost in the dim light, taking down targets ruthlessly. A gun in one hand, a knife in the other—every movement calculated, every strike lethal.
“Is that—?” Konstantin starts, but I already know.
It’s her.
Nephthys.
The woman I’ve been chasing for two months. The one who haunts my thoughts more than I care to admit.
“Sniper,” Dimitri mutters, nodding toward a crane. A second shadow perches high above, taking out targets with unerring precision.
The assassin below moves to the last man near the van, her knife slicing clean across his throat. The body hits the ground with a dull thud. She doesn’t even hesitate. Instead, she motions toward the shadows, and a sleek, unmarked van appears.
“Shit,” Konstantin hisses, lowering his scope. “She’s taking them.”
Sure enough, she’s ushering the terrified women into the van. Despite their fear, there’s something in her demeanor that keeps them moving, something that speaks of control, of quiet reassurance. Within moments, the van’s tires crunch against the gravel as it speeds away.
“She’s getting away,” Dimitri says, frustration bleeding into his tone. “Again.”
“No,” I say, watching as she slips onto the ship. “Not this time.”
“Of course,” Dimitri groans. “You’re going after her. Again. It’s like watching a bad romance movie.”
“Stay here,” I order, already moving toward the ship.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Konstantin grunts, following. “We’re not letting you get yourself killed. What if it’s a trap?”
“I said stay,” I growl, not breaking stride. “I’ll handle this.”
They reluctantly hold back as I board the ship alone. The steel ramp creaks under my boots, echoing through the empty corridors. The air inside is even colder, heavy with silence and the metallic scent of rust and oil.
There she is.
She’s waiting.
Perched on a stack of crates, her silhouette sharp against the dim light. A mask obscures her face, but her eyes—those piercing chocolate-brown eyes—hold mine.
“You’re persistent,” she says, voice smooth and laced with amusement. “I’ll give you that.”
I step closer; gun raised, though my finger stays off the trigger. “And you’re predictable.”
Her soft chuckle is mocking. “Am I? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re the one playing catch-up. You’re wasting your time, Vladimir. You’ll never catch me.”
Hearing my name on her lips sends a strange thrill through me. I ignore it. “Who are you?” I demand.
“Oh! Is your brother and that beast okay? I had to wing the dosage for the tranqs, so I didn’t have time to test whether or not I was correct.”
Her words are meant to unnerve me. I don’t take the bait. “Why did you spare our lives? Who are you?” I demanded again.
She exhales, the sound almost exasperated. “Does it matter? You’re not going to catch me.”
“We’ll see.”
This can’t be the same assassin everyone is scared of. She’s deranged.
She tilts her head, studying me. “You look the part of a predator,” she muses. “All tall, dark, and brooding. Like Dracula! Fitting really. Are you having fun stalking me in the shadows?”
See? She clearly is missing a screw or two.
She stands, and her movements are fluid and confident. “You’re good, but you’re playing the wrong game.”
I narrow my eyes. “And what game is that?”
“The one where I win.”
Then she moves—fast. I fire, but she’s already gone, vanishing behind the crates.
“Missed me,” she taunts, echoing through the ship.
I stalk forward, heart pounding. “You can’t run forever.”
“Who said I was running?”
Suddenly, she’s behind me, her breath warm against my ear. “You’re predictable, Vladimir. That’s going to get you killed one day.”
I spin, but she’s already melted into the shadows.
This time, I won’t let her slip away.
So I chase after her, feeding into this cat-and-mouse game that we’ve been playing.