32. Ilya
ILYA
The wet wood of the cargo barge bumps against the rusted steel of the pier, a low, metallic groan vibrating straight through my boots.
The fog is a thick, grey wall, rolling off the river in heavy, damp layers that smell of oil, rotting seaweed, and cold salt water.
Every breath I draw is a hot blade in my left lung, the black duct tape wrapped around my dislocated shoulder and ribs keeping my chest tight, suffocating, and screaming with agony.
The snapped stitches along my thigh are leaking steadily, the warm, sticky blood soaking through my trousers, but I don't care. I let the pain burn. I need the fire.
Lev slides his hand along the wet railing, his submachine gun held low, his face pale under the grey light. "Visibility is down to five yards, Pakhan. If they have thermal scopes on the crane tower, they’re blind in this mess anyway."
"They’re blind because they’re arrogant," I growl, my voice a flat, dry rattle. "Mikhail thinks he’s a king today. He thinks he’s already won."
"The old man’s team is heading toward the dry dock," Lev says, pointing a finger toward the silhouette of the massive corrugated iron warehouses in the distance. "They’re going to draw the main patrol. We clear the slipway."
"We clear everything," I say, my fingers tightening around the cold, textured grip of my rifle.
I step off the wet wood of the barge, my boot hitting the rusted iron plates of the pier with a soft, hollow thud.
The dislocated joint of my left shoulder is a dead, throbbing weight, but the tape holds it secure against my ribs.
I can only use my right arm to aim, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough.
We move into the maze of rusted shipping containers, the cold mist swallowing our shapes within three steps.
A sharp, heavy footstep echoes from the narrow gap between two green containers to my left.
I stop, my hand coming up to halt Lev. The outline of a Russo enforcer appears through the fog, his rifle held across his chest, the red dot of his laser sight reflecting faintly in the wet puddles on the concrete.
He’s looking toward the main gate, his shoulders tense as the gunshots from Petr’s team start to rattle through the western sector.
"Is that the gate patrol?" The guard speaks into his shoulder radio, his voice sharp with a sudden, nervous static. "The gate detail isn't answering the relay."
I don't give him a second to listen to the silence.
I close the distance before he can even turn his head.
I slide behind him, my good right hand coming up to wrap over his mouth, my thick fingers crushing his lips against his teeth to choke out the scream.
I drive my tactical combat knife straight up through his jaw, the thick, serrated blade tearing through the soft flesh and entering his skull.
His body shudders violently, his boots scraping against the gravel before he goes completely limp in my grip.
I lower him slowly to the ground, his blood warm and sticky against my bare hand.
One.
"Clear," I whisper to Lev.
We move deeper into the container stacks. The fog is getting thicker, the cold air turning into a wet, heavy shroud that clings to my face.
"Two more on the secondary channel," Lev says, his head turning as he catches the low murmur of voices near the crane track. "They have the slipway exit covered."
"Stay in the shadows," I say, my hand reaching for a heavy iron pipe resting against the container wall. "Let them look at the gate."
The two Russo guards are standing near a burning fuel drum, the orange flames casting long, flickering shadows across their wet coats. They’re holding cigarettes, their faces tight with a sudden, anxious dread as the gunfire from the dry dock grows louder, more frantic.
"We should go back to the boat," the taller one says, flicking his ash into the fire. "Mikhail is a maniac. He’s going to get us trapped on the river."
"Mikhail has the cash," the other replies, his hand resting on his holster. "The Vostok family paid him five million to clear the northern channel. We stay until the lines are cast."
I step out of the fog, the iron pipe swinging in a wide, heavy arc.
The metal crashes directly against the side of the taller guard's skull with a sickening, wet crunch. His eyes roll back, his body hitting the concrete like a sack of wet coal, his head split open from his ear to his crown.
The second guard screams, his hand scrambling for his pistol, but I don't give him the chance to clear the leather.
I drop the pipe, my right hand grabbing his throat, my thumb driving deep into his windpipe until the cartilage snaps with a sharp, dry pop.
He chokes, his knees bucking as I lift him off the ground, my fingers squeezing until his eyes go wide, bloodshot, and completely dark.
I toss his body into the burning fuel drum, the scent of singed wool and burning flesh instantly filling the wet air.
Two. Three.
"Ilya, the eastern gate is clear," Lev says, his boots splashing through a puddle as he runs to my side. "But the dock patrol is coming down the track. We have company."
A sudden hail of automatic gunfire shatters the wet wood of the shipping crates behind us, the splinters raining down onto my shoulders like dry needles. Two more Russo enforcers are running through the fog, their muzzle flashes lighting up the grey mist in bright, orange bursts.
I throw myself behind a stack of steel plates, my chest slamming against the metal.
The impact drives the air from my lungs, a blinding white wall of pain shooting through my dislocated shoulder as the duct tape stretches against my skin.
I scream, the sound lost in the roar of the gunfire, but I don't stay down.
"Lev, flank them!" I roar, my good arm rising to rest the barrel of my rifle on the top of the steel plates.
I squeeze the trigger.
The rifle barks, three heavy rounds punching through the chest of the closest guard. He’s thrown backward by the force of the impact, his rifle flying from his hands as his body hits the gravel with a dull thud.
The fifth guard turns to run toward the slipway, his boots slipping on the wet wood of the pier, but I’m already on my feet.
I sprint through the pain, my dislocated shoulder hanging loose, my torn stitches leaking a steady stream of red down my leg.
I tackle him from behind, our bodies crashing heavily onto the concrete slipway.
I roll over, pinning him beneath my weight. He’s screaming, his hands clawing at my face, but I grab a heavy concrete brick from the debris pile and bring it down directly across his face.
Smack.
The concrete shatters, his nose flattening into his skull, his teeth breaking into a wet, bloody mess. He doesn't move again.
Four. Five.
I stand up slowly, my breathing a ragged, wet gasp that tastes of sulfur and blood. My vision is splotched with dark, spinning spots, my knees shaking so violently, I have to lean my weight against the rusted side of a container to keep from falling onto the gravel.
"No!"
The scream carries through the grey fog, high, frantic, and carrying a wild, terrifying desperation that I’d recognize anywhere in this world.
Via.
The pain in my body vanishes. The white fog in my brain clears, replaced by a sudden, primitive, and completely wild focus. I throw my rifle aside—it’s empty anyway—and pull my combat knife from my boot, my fingers locking around the hilt as I run toward the sound of her voice.
I reach the edge of the wooden finger pier just as the world ends.
Petr Denisov is standing in the mist, his dark coat hanging open, his submachine gun smoking in his hands. He looks old, his face pale, but his eyes are fixed on the boat at the end of the dock.
Mikhail is there. He’s standing on the wet wood of the pier, his face a melted pink ruin of scars, his hand holding a heavy black pistol.
He’s going to shoot.
I lunge forward, my boots thudding loudly on the wet planks of the dock, but I’m too far. I’m thirty yards away, my broken body unable to close the distance before the hammer drops.
"Father!"
Via’s shriek tears through the quiet fog, a raw, bloody sound of pure, unadulterated agony.
Mikhail pulls the trigger.
Bang.
Petr doesn't run. He steps directly into the line of fire, his body a solid, unyielding shield that blocks the round from hitting his daughter.
Bang. Bang.
Two more shots rip through the quiet fog.
The impact of the bullets throws Petr backward, his body shuddering as he falls heavily onto his knees, his SMG clattering onto the wooden planks. He slides flat onto his back, his blood, thick and dark, instantly blooming across his white shirt.
Via scrambles to his side, her gold hair falling over her face, her hands pulling his head onto her lap. The emerald green silk of her dress is immediately stained with his blood, a heavy, wet smear that looks exactly like the wedding train at the cathedral.
"He’s dead, Via," Mikhail says, his voice carrying a sick, quiet satisfaction as he steps closer, his pistol pointing down at her head. "Your family is finished. Now get on the boat."
I’m running, my boots throwing up high sprays of water from the wet planks, but before I can reach them, Via moves.
In a single, fluid motion, her hand slides onto the cold grip of my father-in-law's dropped submachine gun. She rolls away from his body, her knees hitting the wet wood, and swings the barrel upward.
She pulls the trigger.
The gun barks, a rapid, deafening spit of muzzle flashes lighting up the grey fog.
But her hands are shaking, her wrists unable to control the heavy snap of the weapon.
The rounds tear through the wooden planks of the pier, throwing up a high shower of splinters, but they miss Mikhail’s chest, the bullets scraping his shoulder before flying into the dark water.
Mikhail lets out a sharp yell of pain, his hand flying to his grazed shoulder, his face contorting into a manic, primitive fury. He levels his pistol straight at her face, his finger tightening on the trigger. "You bitch! I’m going to—"
I hit him.
I leave my feet, my body a solid, crushing projectile that slams directly into his chest. The force of the impact throws both of us off the pier, our bodies crashing through the grey mist and hitting the cold, dark water of the channel with a massive, wet explosion.
The cold water is a sudden, shocking violence that hits my lungs like liquid ice, my ears instantly ringing with a heavy, muffled pressure.
Mikhail is fighting me, his hands clawing at my face, his boots kicking against my ribs as we sink into the black depths.
He’s wild, a frantic, desperate animal trying to find the surface, but my grip on his collar is iron.
I drive my combat knife straight into his thigh under the water, the blade tearing through the beige wool of his trousers and slicing deep into his muscle.
He lets out a muffled, bubbly shriek of pain, his grip on my neck loosening.
I leverage my weight against his chest, my boots kicking against the rusted side of a sunken barge, and force both of us back to the surface.
We break the water in a high spray, our lungs gasping for the cold, damp air. I grab him by the hair, my fingers tangling in the wet strands, and drag his head back. I swim with my one good arm, pulling his weight toward the rusted steel ladder of the slipway.
I haul him out of the water, throwing his body onto the concrete floor of the warehouse. He lands heavily, his shoes scraping against the dust, his breath coming in short, panting wheezes as he tries to crawl toward the shadow of the shipping containers.
I climb the ladder, my dislocated shoulder screaming with a blinding white pain, my torn stitches leaking a steady trail of red across the concrete. I don't feel the cold of the water. I don't feel the broken bones in my hand.
I only see him.
I walk toward him, my boots silent on the wet concrete, the combat knife held low in my right hand.
"Ilya..." He scrambles backward on his elbows, his face pale, his blue eyes wide with a sudden, absolute terror as he sees the raw, wild look in my eyes. He’s bleeding from his leg, his grazed shoulder dripping red onto his beige suit.
"The... the treaty. Viktor Russo... he’ll kill you if you touch me. He has the southern docks."
"Viktor Russo isn't in this room," I say, my voice a flat, freezing whisper that doesn't sound human.
I step on his leg, my boot grinding into the bone until he lets out a high, piercing shriek of agony that echoes off the high corrugated iron roof. He thrashes, his hands clawing at my boot, but I don't move. I lean my weight down, the bone snapping under my heel with a sharp, dry pop.
"This is for my sister," I growl.
I drive my knife straight through his left palm, pinning his hand flat to the concrete floor. He screams, his head tossing back, his teeth grinding together as the blood fountains from the wound, staining the grey dust a deep, dark red.
"And this," I say, my voice dropping into a flat, deadly whisper as I lean down, my face inches from his scarred, twisted smile. "This is for my wife."
I grab his jaw with my left hand, my fingers digging into the pink, puckered scar tissue of his face. I twist his head, exposing his throat, and slide the blade of my knife slowly across his skin.
I don't go fast. I want him to feel every single millimeter of the steel. I want him to know the exact moment his life leaves his body, to hear the wet, heavy rush of his own blood hitting the concrete.
He chokes, his eyes rolling back, his limbs shaking in a series of violent, desperate spasms before he finally goes completely still beneath my boots.
The dock is covered in a dark, thick pool of red, the blood-for-blood ritual complete. Mikhail is dead.
My combat knife slips from my fingers, the metal clattering softly against the concrete.
The strength in my body vanishes. The physical toll of the dislocated shoulder, the crushed ribs, the torn stitches, and the ice-cold water of the channel finally catches up to me in a single, crushing wave.
My knees bucking, my weight falling forward, I collapse onto the concrete right next to his corpse.
I roll onto my back, my chest rising and falling in short, wet gasps that taste of blood and copper.
My vision is splotched with dark, spinning spots, the yellow light of the warehouse ceiling turning into a heavy, suffocating blackness that rushes up to swallow me whole. I try to turn my head, my eyes searching through the thick grey fog for the gold hair and the green silk of her dress.
Via...
"Ilya!"
Her voice carries through the dark, warm, frantic, and completely real. I feel her hands on my face, her small, soft fingers cupping my jaw, her tears warm against my cold skin.
"Stay with me, Ilya," she sobs, her voice a ragged thread in the dark. "Please. Don't go. You have to stay."
I try to smile, but my jaw is too heavy, the darkness finally closing in around my eyes.