Chapter 8 – Kirill
The parking lot was nearly empty at this hour, the shopping mall behind us already closed, its darkened windows reflecting the neon signs from the street.
Red and blue light flickered across concrete while the air smelled like exhaust and rain that hadn’t fallen yet, thick with the promise of a storm.
Illyana walked beside me, her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, blonde hair pulled back in a way that made her look younger than nineteen. But there was nothing young about the way she moved—all controlled grace, like a blade waiting to be drawn.
We’d been grabbing coffee, of all things. A normal activity for normal people. Except we weren’t normal people, and even something as mundane as coffee came with an edge of danger that never quite went away.
“So this Douglas bastard,” Illyana said, her breath misting in the cold air. “How long have you been hunting him?”
“Four years.” The words came out flat, emotionless. Four years of my life consumed by the need for revenge. Four years of chasing shadows and dead ends. “He stole from the Bratva. Made me look like a fool. Nearly got me killed.”
“And Vladimir won’t let you put a bullet in him when you find him?”
“No killing.” I shoved my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. “That was the deal. I find him, I bring him in, and the Bratva handles the rest. But my hands stay clean.”
Illyana snorted. “Your hands were never clean, Kirill. None of ours are.”
She was right, of course. The blood on my hands from years ago would never wash off. No matter how much Vladimir had tried to redirect me, to channel my violence into code instead of fists, it was still there. Still waiting beneath the surface.
“Yeah, well—” I started to say, but movement in my peripheral vision made me stop.
Fast. Too fast. Coming from between two parked cars.
A masked figure lunged at me, all black clothing and swift purpose. I barely had time to register the attack before hands grabbed for my throat, trying to get a grip, trying to drag me down.
Training kicked in. I twisted, broke the hold, shoved back. But the attacker was persistent, coming at me again with the kind of determination that spoke of desperation.
Then I heard the distinctive snick of a butterfly knife opening.
Illyana moved like liquid death. One second she was three feet away, the next she was between me and the attacker, her blade flipping through her fingers with casual precision that would’ve been beautiful if it weren’t so deadly.
“Back the fuck up,” she snarled, her voice going cold and flat.
The masked man didn’t listen. Stupid. People who didn’t listen to Illyana Kamarov usually ended up dead.
He came at me again, trying to get around her, and that’s when everything went to hell.
Illyana didn’t hesitate. Her blade flashed in the neon light—red, blue, red again—as she went on the offensive. She moved like she’d been trained by the same people who’d trained Timur, which meant she moved like a weapon designed specifically to kill.
Bone-cracking hits landed with precision. Her elbow caught the attacker in the gut, driving the air from his lungs with an audible whuff. He doubled over, and she used the momentum to bring her knee up, connecting with his face hard enough that I heard something crack.
Blood sprayed across the concrete, black in the neon light.
“Illyana—” I started, but she was already moving again.
The attacker staggered back, one hand clutching his face, the other reaching for something in his jacket. A weapon, probably. Illyana didn’t give him the chance. She was on him in a heartbeat, her blade slashing across his thigh with surgical precision.
More blood. The metallic scent hit the air, mixing with exhaust and ozone. The attacker went down to one knee, gasping, and Illyana stood over him like an avenging angel carved from ice and fury.
“Who sent you?” she demanded, her blade pressed against his throat. “Los Zetas? Sinaloa? Some other cartel trash thinking they can take shots at the Bratva?”
I should’ve let her finish it. Should’ve let her do what she did best—eliminate threats before they could become problems. But something stopped me.
The attacker’s build. The way he moved, even injured. Something about it felt wrong. Felt familiar in a way that made my instincts scream.
This wasn’t Los Zetas. This was something else.
The struggle continued. The attacker wasn’t done fighting, despite the blood pouring from his thigh. He grabbed Illyana’s wrist, trying to force the blade away from his throat, and she responded by driving her other elbow into his solar plexus.
He gurgled, choking on air, but still didn’t stop. Still fought like a man with everything to lose.
Illyana’s eyes went flat. I recognized that look, the same look Timur got right before he put someone in the ground. She shifted her grip on the blade, angling it for a killing strike. Right between the ribs. Straight into the heart. Clean, efficient, final.
“Don’t kill him!” I lunged forward, catching her wrist just as the blade started its descent.
She froze, turning that flat, deadly gaze on me. “Why the fuck not?”
“Just don’t.” I didn’t have a good reason. Didn’t have any reason except the instinct screaming that if she killed this man, something bad would happen. Vladimir would find out. Would know I’d been involved in a death, even if I hadn’t been the one to deliver it.
And then I’d be on the next plane back to Russia, my hunt for Douglas over, my chance at revenge destroyed.
The masked man took advantage of our distraction. He broke free from Illyana’s grip with a burst of strength that should’ve been impossible given his injuries. Blood soaked through his pants leg, dripped onto the concrete in steady drops, but he still moved.
Still fought.
He backed up several steps, putting distance between us, his breathing ragged behind the mask. Then he spoke, and my entire world tilted.
“Stop meddling with the mansion’s cameras.” His voice was rough, distorted slightly by the mask, but the tone was unmistakable. Threatening. Desperate. “Stay out of it. Let the things be buried in the old mansion unless you want this to end badly.”
The mansion. Barbara’s mansion. The security system I was installing. The footage I’d found.
This wasn’t about Los Zetas or cartel wars or Bratva business.
This was about her.
My mind raced, trying to process. This was the man from the footage. Had to be. The same build, same way of moving. The bastard who’d put his hands on Barbara, who’d shoved her against walls and pointed guns at her.
The boyfriend. Bass.
Except something about that didn’t fit. The voice—
“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded, taking a step forward.
He laughed, sharp and bitter. “Stay away from her. Stay away from that mansion. This is your only warning, tech boy.”
Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small cylinder. Before either of us could react, he threw it at the ground between us.
Smoke exploded outward, thick and gray, filling the parking lot in seconds. Chemical smell, acrid and burning. I couldn’t see two feet in front of me, couldn’t breathe without coughing.
“Motherfucker!” Illyana’s voice came from somewhere to my left, muffled by the smoke.
I moved forward, hands outstretched, trying to find him. But by the time the smoke started to clear, he was gone. Disappeared into the Chicago night like a ghost, leaving nothing behind except blood on the concrete and more questions than answers.
Illyana appeared through the dissipating smoke, her blade still out, her eyes scanning for threats that were no longer there.
“What the fuck was that?” She turned to me, fury blazing in her ice-blue eyes.
“What in this fucking world does he want from you? And why the fuck didn’t you let me kill him? ”
I stared at the spot where he’d been standing, my blood still pounding, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and surreal. “Vladimir’s condition,” I said, the words coming automatically. “No killing. If I’m involved in a death, he calls me back to Russia. My hunt for Douglas is over.”
“Douglas.” She spat the name like a curse. “You keep calling him that. Douglas the bastard. Douglas the thief. Do you even know his real name?”
“No.” The admission tasted bitter. “He used fake IDs, fake credentials, fake everything. Douglas Maclanden was just another lie in a long list of them. When I find him, I’ll learn his real name. Right before I drag him back to face what he did.”
Illyana sheathed her blade with a precise motion, but her jaw was tight with barely controlled rage. “So this masked asshole, he wasn’t Los Zetas?”
“No.” I was still staring at the blood on the concrete, my mind trying to piece together the puzzle. “He mentioned the mansion. The cameras. He wants me to stop working on the security system.”
“What mansion?”
“Davis estate. Next door to your brother’s place.” I ran a hand through my hair, trying to organize my thoughts. “I’m installing a new system. Found evidence of tampering, loops in the footage. Someone’s been sneaking in.”
“And you think that was him?” Illyana gestured at the blood trail. “The one doing the sneaking?”
“I know it was him.” The certainty settled in my gut like stone. “I’ve seen footage. He’s been terrorizing someone in that house.”
Illyana’s expression sharpened. “Who?”
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t tell her about Barbara, about the footage, about the way my chest had constricted watching that bastard put his hands on her. Because telling Illyana meant questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
Questions I didn’t have answers for.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said instead. “What matters is he just attacked me to get me to back off. Which means whatever he’s doing in that mansion, he’s desperate to keep it hidden.”
“So we find him.” Illyana’s voice went flat again, that deadly calm that meant she was already planning violence. “Track the blood, pull surveillance from the mall cameras, use your tech magic. Then I finish what I started.”
I shook my head. “We can’t. Not yet. I need—” I stopped, frustrated. What did I need? Time? Information? A way to help Barbara without violating Vladimir’s terms?
A way to save her without destroying myself in the process?
I stared after where the masked man had disappeared, my blood still pounding in my ears. And that’s when it hit me.
The voice.
Something about it had been nagging at me from the moment he’d spoken, scratching at the back of my mind like a song I couldn’t quite remember. Rough and threatening, yes, but underneath the distortion of the mask, underneath the adrenaline and fury—
“I’ve heard that voice before,” I said slowly, the realization crystallizing.
Illyana turned to look at me. “What?”
“His voice.” I replayed the words in my head, analyzing the cadence, the accent, the particular way he’d formed certain sounds. “I know it. I’ve heard it before.”
“From where? Street? Another parking lot fight? Some Bratva meeting?”
“No.” The certainty grew stronger, more insistent. “Not on the street. Not in a parking lot. Somewhere else. Somewhere….”
I couldn’t place it, but I knew I would.
I looked at the blood on the concrete, illuminated by flickering neon. Looked at the smoke still dissipating into the night air. Thought about Barbara’s face when that phone rang, the fear that made her shake, the bruises I’d seen in the footage.
Thought about Vladimir’s condition. No killing. No violence. Clean hands only.
“I’m going to find him. And then,” I said slowly, “I’m going to make him wish I’d let you kill him.”
Illyana smiled, and it was as sharp as her blade. “Now you’re talking my language.”
We stood in that parking lot, surrounded by evidence of violence and questions that multiplied faster than I could answer them. Los Zetas was supposed to be the threat. Douglas was supposed to be my mission. Vladimir’s conditions were supposed to keep me focused.
But Barbara Davis had thrown all of that into chaos.
And the masked man had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Because now I knew his voice. I was going to find him. Was going to pull apart his life the same way I pulled apart code, looking for vulnerabilities and exploits. Was going to hunt him with the same relentless focus I’d been using to hunt Douglas.
And when I found him, when I finally put a name to that voice, a face to that mask—
Vladimir’s promise be damned.
Some threats needed to be eliminated.