Chapter 37
Maksim
The mask is in the glove compartment.
More than thirteen years ago, I decided to use that piece of plastic to hide my face during operations.
It made me a ghost, someone to be feared, a face that could blend into any crowd without the enemy knowing.
But today I won’t wear it. I want Demidov to see who’s responsible for bringing his forces down.
I want him to look into my eyes with his last breath.
“Thirty seconds to entry,” Yuri’s voice comes through my earpiece, slightly distorted and metallic from the tiny communicator we’re using. “Nine men inside—two at the gate, three in the courtyard, four in the main building.”
“And the basement?”
“No cameras in the basement.”
I clench my hand around the rifle. She’s down there. I’m certain of it.
“Igor…” I call, and he responds immediately.
“Pakhan.”
His voice is deep, serious, focused. The two-meter-tall man—my best friend, my executor, my most trusted general—is armed to the teeth, long hair tied back in a bun, wearing a tactical military vest.
“No one leaves alive.” I look into his eyes and he nods. “Except Demidov. He’s mine.”
He raises two fingers and silently signals toward the gate a few meters away. Twenty elite-trained men move through the darkness, ready to leave nothing but bodies behind.
In six minutes, we’re inside.
The two gate guards were well armed, but they couldn’t land a single shot on any of us in the dark. After the gate comes down, gunfire erupts from the courtyard, but one by one, they fall.
Demidov’s team is a joke.
Despite how easy this is, despite the gap in training and firepower, I can’t relax. With every enemy killed, every door kicked open, my fear grows—that I’ll find only Svetlana’s body.
The main building’s door is metal, locked from the inside.
Two of our men throw their weight against it, kicking, trying to force it open.
It doesn’t budge. Another man pushes through from behind with a tactical battering ram, clearing a path to reach the door, but before he can swing, I snatch it from his hands.
“Give me that.”
I position the ram just above the lock and start swinging. Metal crashes against metal with a deafening bang, and on the third strike, the lock gives way and the door flies open. At the far end of the hall, I can see the stairs leading down to the basement.
I don’t wait for anyone—I go first. I know Igor is right behind me because I can hear him cursing under his breath about how reckless I am.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he hisses.
“Quiet,” I snap.
The basement corridor is long, reeking of mold and something metallic. The overhead light flickers, plunging the path into darkness for an instant. I round the corner with the rifle still slung over my shoulder, finger off the trigger. If there had been an enemy here, I’d be a dead man.
But there isn’t.
There’s a woman standing in the middle of the corridor—frightened eyes, furrowed brow, breath coming in gasps, clothes completely soaked in blood. And she’s pointing a pistol straight at me.
I stop, raise my hands, and call out to her.
“Svetlana.”
She’s standing alone in the corridor, both arms extended, a pistol trembling in her grip. Her hair hangs loose, plastered to one side of her face. Dried blood trails down from her temple, and fresh blood soaks her pants, her boots, her shirt sleeves.
Alive.
She’s alive.
That’s all that matters. I take a step forward, but the gun doesn’t lower. I call to her again.
“Solnyshko.”
“You weren’t supposed to be here,” she murmurs as I approach with slow steps.
“He wants you! You weren’t supposed to come!”
Those beautiful green eyes are glazed, locked on me. With every word, her hands tighten around the gun. She’s trembling uncontrollably, but her finger isn’t on the trigger, so I reach for the barrel and slowly push the pistol down until it’s pointing at the floor.
“They took you,” I say quietly. “Of course I came.”
Anya sobs. The pistol clatters to the floor, and I immediately wrap her small body in my arms.
She’s alive.
She’s alive.
I repeat it to myself as the warmth of her body seeps into me and the beast inside me settles, just a little. My wife stands there in my embrace, not returning it, trembling—until she pulls back slightly and raises both palms.
“I killed a man,”
she confesses quietly, showing her hands red with blood.
“I stabbed him and there was so much blood. He was going to kill me, Maksim, I had no choice. He just kept looking at me and…”
“Anya, it’s okay.”
“…and I didn’t feel anything.” Her eyes are huge, wide. Her brow is furrowed, confused. “I didn’t feel anything.”
I say nothing. I don’t want to tell her she’s in shock and that the guilt might come back later, and I don’t want to say she might never feel anything at all. I don’t know which would be worse for her, so I just stay silent. I set the rifle down and pull her into my arms again.
In an instant, Anya collapses. She cries softly against my chest and holds me so tight I feel her nails digging into my neck. The heavy, rigid vest keeps me from feeling her body fully, but I don’t care. I just need to be here. With her.
“I knew.” Her voice gradually stops trembling, growing firmer. “I told him you wouldn’t come, but I knew.”
Him.
Demidov.
I close my eyes for two seconds, savoring her touch, then open them again. I still have scores to settle—I can’t give him another chance to escape.
Igor stands behind us, guarding the corridor. When I pull away from Anya, he stares at her for a long moment, just as I did, scanning for injuries until his eyes land on the top of her boot, where the carved handle of the knife peeks out.
He looks at her, at the trail of bloody footprints she left behind, and asks:
“You used the knife?”
She lifts her chin and nods silently.
Then Igor closes the distance between us and wraps his huge, tattooed arms around her. Anya accepts the embrace, and I hear Igor murmur his approval:
“You did well.”
She pulls away from the embrace and straightens her spine. That frightened victim posture is fading.
“He’s around the corner, near the bathroom.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Igor says.
The last thing I want is to leave her now, but I have to. Demidov cannot escape. I take Svetlana’s face in my hands, kiss her lips, and press our foreheads together.
“Stay with Igor, do everything he tells you.”
I look toward him, and he understands what this means, but I give the order anyway.
“Stay with her. Don’t let anyone get close until I return.”
“Da, Pakhan.”
I take a step back toward the exit corridor, but she stops me. Her slender fingers grip my sleeve so hard her knuckles are white.
“Wait, where are you going?”
I turn to her, savoring the warmth and concern in the green eyes I’ve loved since the first moment.
“To get my revenge.”
Her fingers slowly let go, and when I expect to find fear in her eyes, I find only approval. Then I turn and head toward Demidov.
As I climb the stairs, Yuri’s voice comes through in my ear.
“Maks, in the back courtyard.” His voice seems tense for a moment. “My father’s with a guy in the back courtyard. They’re both on the ground.”
I don’t stop climbing the stairs despite the chill running down my spine.
“On the ground how?”
“Trading punches. The guy was trying to escape and ran right into your advisor.” The concern disappears, and I hear a low laugh. “Guess who’s winning?”
I quicken my pace, certain it’s Demidov. Vladimir wouldn’t get into a hand-to-hand fight with anyone else—he’d just put a bullet in the guy’s head.
“Nobody enters that courtyard,” I shout into the radio. “Nobody shoots, nobody touches him. He’s mine!”
I cross the main warehouse in long strides and exit through the loading dock.
The back courtyard is a rectangle of cracked concrete with weeds growing between the slabs, surrounded by a high wall with only one gate locked by a chain. That bastard was trying to escape like a frightened sewer rat.
But of course he didn’t make it, because Vladimir Moscovich had anticipated this and was there waiting.
It’s easy to forget he was once a bloodthirsty soldier.
That when he was promoted by the former Pakhan, the first position offered was executioner, not advisor.
Vladimir has killed more men than most of my men will kill in their entire lives, and he did it without blinking.
His forty-two years don’t tell you anything about him, except that he’s at the peak of his physical form.
His shirt is torn at the shoulder, sleeves rolled up, blood on the collar, two buttons undone. The few white strands mixed with his blond hair are still impeccable, falling over his forehead, and Pavel Demidov is on all fours spitting blood onto the ground.
Vladimir is looking down at him, brass knuckles gleaming on his large right hand. He’s not even breathing hard while the other man groans, curses, and bemoans getting caught.
“This rat was trying to run, Pakhan.” He doesn’t even turn his head when speaking to me, just keeps watching the trash at his feet. “Thought you’d like a word with him alone.”
Demidov lifts his head and I see his eyes trace my scar.
Along with the thick, poorly healed line comes the understanding that only someone with a face like this could hide behind a mask.
All the bravado I expected to find in the man who invaded my territory and spread lies about me is gone. Only fear shines in his eyes.
He tries to get up in some idiotic impulse to run. Vladimir even lets him steady himself, only to drive a fist so deep into his stomach that the man doubles over, completely breathless.
“Stay down, you useless worm.”
Vladimir’s low voice drips with hatred. He looks up at me, nods briefly, and steps back without another word. As he passes, I reach out and rest my hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you, my friend.”
His lip curves slightly at one corner and he leaves, retreating to the edge of the courtyard where he stands with arms crossed. Watching. Guarding my back.
I walk toward Demidov, sprawled on the hard, dirty courtyard.