Chapter 22 – Timofey
The first raid begins before sunrise.
The city is still half-asleep when we move, swallowed in that thin gray light that sits between night and morning. Quiet enough to feel empty. Dangerous enough to feel like a trap if you hesitate for even a second.
It’s the first location Valeria identified.
I don’t question her assessment. Not anymore. Not after everything she’s gotten right so far.
We approach in formation, vehicles cutting through the industrial edge of the waterfront with minimal sound. No lights. No unnecessary movement.
The warehouse comes into view quickly.
Small. Deceptively ordinary from the outside. Corrugated metal, weathered concrete, a structure no one would look at twice unless they already know what they’re looking for.
That alone confirms it.
According to intel, Anton prefers places like this. Places that disappear into the background of the city while hiding everything important inside them. Supply movement. Weapons flow. Rotation points. Quiet infrastructure.
I raise a hand. The convoy stops immediately.
“Positions,” I say quietly.
My men move without hesitation. Years of training snapping into place as they spread out across the perimeter. Cover points established. Entry angles secured. Escape routes cut off before the first door is even touched.
Misha moves beside me. “No movement inside yet,” he reports.
“Doesn’t matter,” I reply. “We assume it’s active.”
He nods once.
I glance at the building again, then signal forward.
The breach is clean.
We move in as one unit, sweeping the space with precision. Every angle covered. Every blind spot checked. Weapons raised. Eyes sharp.
And immediately—
I know we’re too late.
Empty weapon crates line the walls. Not scattered—stacked. Organized. Like they were packed up in a hurry, but not a careless one.
Several surveillance monitors are still running, screens flickering with live feeds from cameras positioned outside the building. Entry points. Road access. Perimeter angles.
No one is here. But until recently, they were.
“Did they abandon this place?” Misha asks, looking around the space.
“No,” I say quietly. “It was cleared.”
That difference matters.
I move deeper into the warehouse, scanning everything. The floor. The surfaces. The corners most people overlook.
Looking for what they missed.
What they didn’t think to erase.
A table sits near the back—metal, scratched, recently used. I check it. Nothing. No papers. No devices. No careless trace left behind.
Too clean.
We move from room to room. Storage. Back office. A narrow corridor leading to what used to be a secondary exit.
Every space tells the same story.
They were here.
And then they weren’t.
I check the last room myself. Slower this time. More deliberate. Hoping for something—anything—that breaks the pattern.
A document.
A discarded phone.
A mistake.
There’s nothing.
Not even a trace of anything. They were very thorough.
I step back into the main warehouse, jaw tightening slightly as the realization settles fully into place.
“Did they know we were coming?” Misha asks quietly behind me.
“I’m not sure,” I reply. Then my voice hardens. “But we don’t slow down because of it.”
I turn sharply toward the exit.
“Two more locations,” I add. “We move now. Let’s go.”
There’s no hesitation.
No second-guessing.
We clear out of the warehouse fast, the team falling back into formation as we load up and move. Engines roar to life, tires biting into the road as we push toward the next location.
This time, it’s different.
I feel it before we even breach.
The building is tighter. Smaller. Tucked between older structures that choke the street into a narrow corridor.
“Stack up,” I order.
We move into position. Weapons up. Breathing controlled. Every man locked in.
The door goes down, and the world erupts.
Gunfire tears through the hallway instantly, deafening in the confined space. Muzzle flashes burst from the far end, lighting up shadows in violent pulses.
“Contact!” someone shouts.
I move forward into it.
No hesitation.
Return fire cuts through the corridor as my team responds with brutal precision. We don’t spray. We don’t panic. Every shot is controlled, measured, intentional.
One man drops. Then another.
But they’re prepared.
They don’t break immediately. They push back. Hard.
“Left side!” Misha calls out.
I pivot, catching movement just as another figure steps out from cover. I fire before he can fully raise his weapon. He goes down instantly.
The hallway fills with smoke, heat, and the sharp, metallic scent of gunfire.
We advance anyway. Step by step. Clearing as we go.
Room by room.
No wasted motion. No wasted breath.
This isn’t chaos.
It’s controlled violence.
And we’re better at it.
The last man tries to retreat deeper into the building. He doesn’t make it far.
Silence returns slowly.
Heavy. Ringing. Broken only by the sound of boots shifting and weapons lowering just slightly.
I scan the space once more, ensuring there’s no movement left. No threats hiding in corners. No second wave waiting to ambush.
“Clear,” Misha confirms.
I nod once, chest rising steadily as the adrenaline begins to settle into something colder.
“Any of them still breathing?” I ask.
Misha does a quick sweep, checking bodies with sharp, efficient movements.
“A few,” he says. “Wounded. Not dead.”
“Good.”
The word leaves my mouth without emotion.
The surviving men are dragged into one of the side rooms—small, enclosed, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Blood on the floor. Dust in the air. The aftermath of a fight they already lost hanging heavy around them.
I step in last.
They look at me the moment I enter.
Not defiant. Not angry.
They already know.
There’s no need for theatrics. No need for threats. That part is over.
I stop in front of the nearest one, crouching just enough to meet his eye level. His breathing is uneven, pain written all over his face, but he holds my gaze anyway.
Good.
That makes this faster.
“Where is he?” I ask.
No raised voice. No aggression.
Just certainty.
The man hesitates—out of instinct, not courage.
I tilt my head slightly.
“You’ve already lost this location,” I continue, quieter now. “So don’t waste what little time you have left pretending you still have leverage.”
His jaw tightens. Then loosens.
Because he knows I’m right.
Behind me, I can feel Misha watching closely. The others silent, waiting. The entire room holding its breath for what comes next.
The man swallows hard.
“He’s not here,” he mutters.
“I know,” I reply. “Where did he go?”
This time, the hesitation is shorter.
More fragile.
“He’s not here at all,” he answers, his breathing labored.
The room stills.
I don’t move.
“Explain,” I say quietly.
He swallows hard, pain tightening his face.
“Anton Petrov…he’s not in New York yet,” he continues. “He’s still in Moscow. Finalizing things before he comes.”
My gaze sharpens. “When?”
The man lets out a weak breath.
“Two days,” he says. “He’ll be here in two days.”
That’s all the answer I need.
Everything clicks into place at once.
The empty warehouse.
The rushed withdrawal.
The resistance here without real leadership.
They weren’t protecting him.
They were preparing for him.
I straighten slowly.
Two days.
That’s not a delay.
That’s a window.
Without another word, I turn away.
“Finish them,” I tell Misha as I stride out. “And meet me outside in five minutes.”