Chapter 26 #2
A muffled groan came through in the background.
Ella's voice.
My fingers tightened on the gun grip.
But I didn't move.
Now wasn't the time for regret. What comes after regret—nothing comes after, she was still in there, still bleeding. As long as she was in there, I had no right to stop and regret anything.
"Time's almost up, Seryozha," Viktor said. "Come in."
The call ended.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket, shifting my gaze to Bogdan.
He stood in the shadows three meters to my right, waiting for my signal.
I held up two fingers, slashed them to the right.
Bogdan nodded, turned, and vanished into the darkness.
Then seven more figures, like water seeping through cracks, silently dispersed into the dock's darkness.
The perimeter guards disappeared one by one—no sound, no struggle, as if they'd never existed.
But the two men at the warehouse entrance didn't budge.
And around the warehouse, pressed against the walls—Viktor's veterans, twenty years with him, every one alert, no blind spots, gun barrels pointing in all directions.
Bogdan's voice came through the earpiece, extremely low. "Perimeter cleared. But four around the warehouse—no opening, Pakhan."
I surveyed the terrain, then made my decision.
"Stand by," I said. "Don't move. Wait for my signal."
"Pakhan—"
"Stand by."
I stepped out from the shadows.
The moon emerged from behind the clouds, illuminating the entire dock clearly, stretching my shadow long across the rust-stained ground.
The two men at the warehouse entrance raised their guns.
I raised both hands, walking slowly, steadily, each step landing on my own shadow, until I stopped three paces from the door.
"Let him in," came Viktor's voice from inside.
The gun barrels parted.
I pushed open the door and walked in.
Dingy yellow light.
The smell of rot.
And—
Ella.
She was tied to an iron pillar at the far end, hands behind her back, boots gone, sweater torn, sitting on the cold cement floor. Her cheek was swollen, dried blood at the corner of her mouth, rope wrapped around her wrists, cutting deep into the skin, leaving dark purple marks.
Her toes were bleeding.
She looked up, saw me walk in, and her eyes brightened for a moment.
Just that moment, quick as a flash of light, then she pushed something down, bit her lip, and her expression became very calm.
Something exploded in my chest in that moment—rage, heartache, something that seared cracks along the edges of my sanity—but I pushed it all down, compressed it into something cold and hard as iron.
Not yet.
"Seryozha," Viktor's voice came from the side. "Take off your jacket. Let me see."
I removed my jacket.
Bulletproof vest. Glock at my waist.
"Only one gun," he raised an eyebrow, walking over and stopping in front of me. "You value your own life so little for this woman."
"Name your terms," I said. "Skip the talk."
He looked at me, then turned and walked leisurely back to his chair, sat down, and crossed his legs.
"The position of Pakhan of the Volkov family," he said. "Your position, your power, your connections—hand it all over to me." He paused. "In exchange for her life."
The warehouse was silent for a second.
My eyes met Ella's.
Her gaze held no pleading, no fear. What it held was a stubborn defiance that made me both ache and want to laugh—she was shaking her head, the tiniest movement, as if telling me not to agree.
I returned my gaze to Viktor.
"If you dare touch one hair on her head," I said, voice soft, "I'll make everyone in this warehouse wish they were dead."
Viktor froze for a second, then laughed. "You're in no position to—"
Gunshot.
Just one.
The bullet hit Viktor's right shoulder. He toppled backward into the chair, cigar falling to the floor, hand clutching his shoulder, face showing real shock for the first time.
His guards raised their guns, but Bogdan's men had already poured in from the side door and main entrance simultaneously, gun to gun, the situation flipping in an instant.
"Pakhan, perimeter fully secured—"
"Ella!"
Dmitri.
I whipped around.
He'd emerged from the shadows in the corner of the warehouse, somehow having made it to Ella's back, pistol pressed hard against her temple, his other hand gripping her hair, wrenching her head back. Ella's throat was exposed below the gun barrel, her face twisted with pain, but she made no sound.
"Nobody move!" His voice cracked, eyes bloodshot, like a string about to snap. "Anyone moves and I'll kill her!"
Everyone froze.
"Dmitri," my voice dropped very low. "Let her go."
"Why should I!" he roared, something pathologically broken in his voice. "Why do you get everything? The position is yours, the power is yours, even she—"
"I never belonged to you," Ella spoke.
Her voice was calm.
Dmitri looked down at her, stunned.
"You know what," Ella said, her tone carrying an extremely light, temperature-less indifference. "Your grandfather called you worthless to your face, told you to get out. Now you're holding a gun to my head, using his men, standing on his turf, running his errands."
His finger tightened on the trigger. "Shut up!"
"When you took out loans in my name," she continued, "what were you thinking? That I wouldn't find out, or that even if I did, I couldn't do anything about it?" She looked directly at him. "I was just a tool, wasn't I. From the very beginning."
Dmitri's expression twisted.
Anger, pain, and something deeper—something about being forced to see himself—like looking for the first time at a mirror that had always been there, the face in it unbearable, yet impossible to look away from.
His hand trembled.
Just that one tremor.
My eyes met Ella's across the space.
Her gaze was steady, clear, giving me the smallest nod.
My finger tightened on the trigger.
Ella suddenly twisted right, throwing her full weight sideways—she'd already secretly broken free of the rope! That's my girl. Dmitri clearly hadn't expected it. She dropped into a full crouch, escaping the direct line of the gun barrel.
Dmitri's aim shifted.
I pulled the trigger.
Gunshot.
The bullet hit Dmitri's right shoulder. He fell backward, the pistol slipping from his hand, hitting the floor and sliding away. He hit the ground with a dull thud and didn't move again.
The firefight erupted fully in the next second.
Bogdan's men flooded in from all directions—gunfire, footsteps, shouted orders, all blending together. The overhead lights flickered with the vibrations, casting wild shadows dancing across the walls.
"Ella!"
I rushed over, crouched down, slashed through the last of the rope on her wrists with a knife, pulled her up from the floor, shielded her with my body, backing toward the iron pillar.
"Where are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," she said, voice hoarse, hand gripping my vest. "Sergei, I'm fine."
The gunfire began to thin out.
Viktor's men were being suppressed. The situation in the warehouse had tipped in our favor.
Bogdan's voice came through the earpiece. "Pakhan, basically secured, mopping up—"
A cold laugh.
My hair stood on end! Something's wrong! Danger!
From the left.
From the ground.
I spun around.
Viktor had somehow picked up a fallen gun from the floor. His right shoulder was still bleeding, but he'd propped himself halfway up, gun barrel aimed at Ella, and squeezed the trigger.
In that second, I saw what was in his eyes—not rage, not madness, but that final, absolute malice of someone who'd lost everything.
I didn't think, just grabbed Ella and threw myself in front of her.
A burning sensation, then a heavy impact that made me stagger forward a step.
"Sergei!"
Ella's voice exploded in my ears.
I steadied myself, turned, and raised the Glock.
Viktor's gun was still raised, but his hand was shaking, those eyes staring at me, showing something unlike him for the first time—fear.
Bogdan reacted instantly, a shot hitting Viktor's wrist. The gun flew away.
The gunfire in the warehouse stopped completely.
Silence fell, only the wind pouring through the broken windows, carrying the fishy smell of river water, and Ella's breathing—rapid, ragged, pressed against my back, both hands clutching my bulletproof vest with all her strength.
"Sergei," her voice trembled. "You're hit!"
"I'm fine," I said, turning to cup her face.
Swollen cheek, blood at the corner of her mouth, wrists rubbed raw by rope, toes bleeding.
But her eyes were clear, bright.
"What about you?" I said. "Where are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," she said. "Sergei, your back..."
"The vest caught it," I said. "I'm fine."
I released her, turned. "Bogdan, Viktor and Dmitri—"
I didn't finish.
Something hot and coppery surged up my throat.
I looked down.
Blood.
Falling to the ground, spreading into a dark red pool on the gray cement.
"Sergei!"
Ella's voice sounded like it came from far away, yet also exploded right in my ear.
My knee buckled, dropping me to one knee, hand bracing against the ground. The pain in my ribs erupted fully in that moment, no longer dull but sharp—every breath like something stabbing inward.
The vest had stopped the bullet, but the impact had broken ribs. The shattered bone inside had punctured something.
"Pakhan!" Bogdan rushed over, dropping to one knee beside me, his voice cracking for the first time. "Medical team—medical team get in here now!"
Ella crouched in front of me, both hands cupping my face, forcing me to look at her.
Tears in her eyes, but they hadn't fallen. Her gaze was steady—steadier than I'd expected.
"Sergei, look at me," she said, voice soft. "Look at me."
I looked at her.
"You can't close your eyes," she said. "Do you hear me, you can't."
"I know," I said, my voice rougher than expected. "I'm not planning to—"
Another mouthful of blood.
I turned my head away, not wanting her to see, but her hands turned my face back.
"Don't turn away," she said, a tear finally falling, sliding down her cheek, quickly. "Just look at me. Keep looking at me."
Urgent footsteps outside—the medical team rushing in.
Bogdan beside me, his voice becoming commands, rapid, in Russian. I heard it scattered, but caught a few words—ribs, internal bleeding, immediate transport.
Someone eased me back, propping me against something.
Ella didn't leave.
She gripped my hand, kept gripping it, knuckles straining, palm warm, covered in blood—her own blood, from those rope-burned hands.
"Sergei," she said.
"Yeah."
"You can't die," she said, her voice finally shaking, shaking badly. "Do you hear me, you can't—"
"I know," I said.
I squeezed her hand.
"I still have something," I said, "to tell you."
She looked up at me, glaring, tears streaming down her face. "Then hold on," she said. "If you dare die here, I'll never forgive you."
I smiled.
Smiling made the ribs hurt more, but I couldn't help it.
"Okay," I said. "I'll hold on."
But my eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and then darkness swallowed me whole.