18. Playing with Fire
PLAYING WITH FIRE
“Put that on.” I toss a vest at Viktor Nikitin, the youngest member of the crew I brought to Rotterdam. He’s only nineteen. Can’t even grow a proper beard yet.
Predictably, he tries to shove it back to me. “I don’t—”
“Put it on,” I bark.
This time, he listens.
We’re in the Netherlands, retaliating against opportunistic Italians and putting a valuable informant at risk because I needed an outlet for the simmering restlessness that’s lingered since I left Chicago. I refuse to lose a single man during this operation.
“Almost there,” Misha Gurin, who’s driving, states.
“Belov, Romanova, be ready to back us up. Gurin, keep watch.”
Misha nods, his profile backlit by the port lights.
I look at Viktor last. He’s strapped on the vest.
“Nikitin, with me.”
The teenager nods, grip tightening on his gun. His throat bobs once with a swallow before his head turns, looking out the window. Kid’s probably choking on adrenaline right now.
Me? I’m tired from a string of shitty nights of sleep, my mind mapping out the logical approach to the warehouse.
I’ve always worked well under pressure, which is part of what makes me so damn deadly.
When it counts most, I’m always ready. Snapping into the survival mindset isn’t only necessary; it’s a relief.
It minimizes everything else, diminished by basic instincts.
The stark divide between life and death doesn’t allow for hopes or regrets or second-guessing.
The SUV stops at the end of the block. I flip the safety, the soft click as the switch changes position loud in the silent car.
Then pop the door open and climb out, leaving it open for Belov, who was seated in the third row behind me.
I round the trunk and start walking along the perimeter of the nearest building with the sure stride of someone who’s supposed to be here.
A dog barks in the distance, followed by the blare of a ship’s horn. Ports aren’t deserted in the middle of the night, like most places.
Viktor shadows me, mimicking my position. We reach the end of the block, which offers the first clear view of the warehouse that’s our target.
Two men guard the main entrance, which seems excessive.
If Andrea’s intel was correct, this is an ordinary shipment, not much larger than the one filched from us.
A single man stationed would have been plenty of oversight under most circumstances.
More common would be to let it sit to avoid drawing any attention.
The guard on the left raises a cup of coffee to take a sip. It splatters a second later, splashing on the second guard’s pants. He barely has time to glance down at the mess before he falls next to his companion.
I lower my gun. “Ready?”
“Yes, boss,” is the immediate reply.
I hug the cover of the building for a few more strides, then cross the street, stopping in front of the two dead men. Fish a set of keys out of one’s pocket, only trying one before finding the correct fit. The door swings open, and I flip on one set of the overhead lights.
“Drag them in before they bleed all over the street,” I tell Belov and Romanova, who have joined us, then gesture for Nikitin to come inside. “Clear it,” I instruct him.
Viktor nods, hurrying away to check the perimeter. I stride over to appraise the stacked crates that occupy about half the warehouse.
A crowbar is leaning against one stack. I pick it up, using the tool to wedge a crate top open. It’s all cigars—Igor’s favorite brand. The next crate I open is full of wine. I shake my head, letting the lid clatter to the floor before circling to check the other side.
Sudden movement flashes in my peripheral vision.
There’s no time to lift my gun or grab the crowbar before I’m slammed from the side, my left elbow colliding with the concrete floor first. Distant voices echo around me, but I’m too focused on wrestling with my opponent to comprehend what’s being said.
The man is stocky and strong, several inches shorter than I am.
I have the leverage to jab his jaw while he’s trying to keep my legs pinned down.
It’s enough to stun him for a second, and that’s all I need.
I pull a knife out of a thigh holster and slit his throat in the same motion, shoving him aside to suffocate on his blood somewhere that’s not all over me.
Three men surround me in a loose semicircle, all with their weapons raised.
Viktor’s eyes are wide as he glances between me and the twitching man.
I push myself upright, sliding the knife back into its holster. Walk a few feet ahead, finding the gap between crates where the man must have hidden when he heard us coming.
“I told you to clear the area,” I snap at Viktor.
“S-sorry, boss. I hadn’t gotten to that side yet.”
No shit.
“Finish now,” I command, and he nods before hurrying off.
I glance at Belov and Romanova next. Both are grinning.
“Might be a new record, boss,” Belov states.
“You could’ve let us help,” Romanova adds. “We came all this way, and you took down all three.”
I scoff. “Call Misha. Have him pull up front and unload the back.”
They nod and disappear.
I drag the third man to join the guards, away from the crates.
“All clear,” Viktor says, approaching me cautiously.
I nod an acknowledgment, withholding any praise. He needs to learn small mistakes can have huge consequences.
Belov and Romanova walk back inside the warehouse, each carrying two large cans of gasoline.
“Start pouring,” I instruct, then head outside to call Igor.
I light a cigarette while the phone rings, wishing I had some vodka handy. My elbow is beginning to throb, protesting its collision with concrete.
“Is it done?” Igor asks.
“Just have to drop the match.”
“How many men?”
“Three.”
He hums. “They were worried.”
“If they weren’t, they will be.”
Igor laughs. “You are my best weapon.”
Aleksandr must not be there.
I hang up, then head inside.
Five minutes later, we leave a bonfire behind.