Chapter 5
Zoya
Iwalk into the private hospital room and find Sergei propped up against a mountain of pillows, looking significantly better than a man who’s been shot five days ago.
There’s a stack of discharge papers sitting on his bedside table that he’s pointedly ignoring, so I pull up a chair and gesture toward the pile.
“Why haven’t you signed those yet?” I ask, looking him over for any signs of permanent damage. “The doctors say you’re stable, and I know you hate being confined, so sign the papers so we can get out of here.”
Sergei adjusts his gown and leans back with a stubborn expression on his face.
“Why the hell would I even want to leave in the first place? The nurses are pretty, they take excellent care of me, and they actually tell me ‘good morning’ with a smile every time they walk through the door. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since a woman has said good morning to me? ”
I stare at him in disbelief, wondering if the blood loss has affected his brain. “Am I not a woman, Sergei? I literally say good morning to you every single day when I walk into the office, and usually, I’m bringing you the coffee that keeps your heart beating.”
“You don’t count because you don’t even behave like a woman most of the time,” he counters, waving a hand dismissively at me. “Personally, I consider you a fellow man, like a brother-in-arms or a colleague I’d share a trench with. There’s no feminine grace there, Zoya. Just pure journalistic grit.”
“Gee, thanks for that. My womanly ego really needed that little boost of confidence while I’m trying to save your life,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair. “It’s nice to know that after three years of working for you, I’ve officially reached ‘one of the guys’ status.”
“Don’t get sensitive on me now,” he says, his voice dropping as he gestures toward the top drawer of the nightstand. “I didn’t stay in this room just for the nurses. Open the drawer and look under the stack of medical brochures.”
I do as I’m told and find a small, black flash drive tucked away where the staff wouldn’t think to look. I hold it up, looking back at him with a mix of confusion and mounting dread as I realize exactly when he must have acquired it.
“Sergei, please tell me you didn’t steal this while you were actively bleeding out on the floor,” I say, gripping the plastic casing tightly.
“I saw an opening in the side office right before the shooting started, and I wasn’t going to let a perfectly good lead go to waste just because of a little flesh wound,” he replies, his eyes lit with a reckless intensity.
“That drive is the real deal, Zoya. I could feel the weight of the secrets on it the moment I tucked it into my pocket. Take it home and see what’s on it, but be careful. ”
I pocket the drive and leave the hospital, my mind racing as I navigate the streets back to my apartment. Once I’m inside with the door locked and the blinds drawn, I sit down at my laptop to see what Sergei risked his life for.
The files populate the screen in a long, terrifying list of spreadsheets and encrypted documents that outline the complete corruption of the Moscow government.
I scroll through a ledger labeled “Municipal Payments” and watch my reflection in the dark screen as I realize every judge, police chief, and city official I’ve ever respected is on Alexei Romanov’s payroll.
Judge Federov is receiving eighty thousand rubles a month, while Police Chief Volkov is being paid double that to ensure the Bratva’s shipments are never intercepted at the border.
I open another folder and find a document titled “Escalation Protocols,” which is a detailed strategic plan for an all-out war against the Georgian gangs.
It includes maps divided into zones and a step-by-step guide to dismantling their operations, starting with the elimination of their mid-level leadership.
According to the timeline, the final phase of the war is scheduled to begin in less than four months, which means the city is about to become a very dangerous place for everyone involved.
I feel a cold sweat break across my neck as I open the subfolder labeled “Insurance,” finding a library of blackmail material that could topple the Russian government in an afternoon.
There are videos of executions, photos of politicians in positions that would end their careers and their marriages, and detailed dossiers on every person Romanov keeps on his payroll.
He doesn’t just buy their loyalty; he owns their lives, keeping their darkest secrets locked away as a guarantee that no one will ever grow a conscience.
I’m about to close the drive when a file at the bottom catches my eye, the title “Journalist Monitoring” making my stomach turn into a knot of cold lead. I open it and find a list of forty names, but I only care about the one halfway down the page.
PETROV, Zoya.
It states that I’m a high-risk target but that the Pakhan has expressed personal interest, meaning I’m not to be eliminated without his direct orders. Okay.
I scroll down and see three other journalists’ names marked with red text as “Eliminated,” including Mikhail Sokolov, who everyone thought had fled the country but was actually disposed of in April.
My coffee cup slips from my fingers and shatters on the floor, but I don’t move to clean it as I realize I’m holding evidence of multiple murders and systematic corruption.
I spend the next hour copying the files to backup drives and encrypted cloud servers, knowing I have maybe some limited time before he realizes the drive is missing.
My phone buzzes on the desk. It’s a text from Sergei.
Sergei
Did you look at it?
Delivered
Yeah
Delivered
I type back, my fingers feeling numb.
Sergei
And?
Delivered
We’re dead.
Delivered
There’s a long pause before his response finally appears.
Sergei
But it’s one hell of a story.
Delivered
I let out a sharp, jagged laugh at the fact that Sergei is still more concerned about a headline than the fact that we’re both walking targets for the most dangerous man in Russia.
Get some rest, you idiot. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.
I shut the laptop and sit in the dark, listening to the city outside and wondering how long I have left. My phone buzzes one last time with a message from an unknown number:
Unknown
Sweet dreams, beautiful. - A
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