Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“Bring him to me,” I tell Sergei.
Sergei nods and leaves, taking another guard with him.
I step closer to the driver, until I am close enough that he can see there is no mercy on my face.
“She is pregnant,” I tell him. “She was injured. And you thought your goddamn nephew was worth risking your life over.”
“I didn’t know,” he whispers.
“That changes nothing,” I tell him.
I pull my gun and shoot him once. His body jerks, then goes slack. The dock worker starts to scream.
Sergei comes downstairs with the kid. I turn back to watch him as he takes in the sight of his dead uncle. Sergei watches me like he is trying to catalog what I have become, then he speaks quietly. “He’s just a kid, Viktor.”
“He’s old enough to take responsibility,” I say before turning on the kid. “Sit down.”
The dock worker is sobbing, begging, shaking hard enough that the chair rattles. Sergei snaps for the guards to move the driver’s body, then sits the kid down in his place. There’s still blood on the chair and he flinches, but I don’t give him any alternative.
I look at him. He can’t be older than twenty, but his actions still put Anya and my child in the hands of Mikhail Grinkov.
“Did you speak to Grinkov men?”
“No,” he chokes. “I didn’t. I swear. I didn’t.”
Sergei leans closer to me. “It is possible he is telling the truth. He might still be useful.”
I hold the kid’s gaze for a moment longer. He is terrified. He looks like he will tell me anything I ask just to keep breathing. After all, he is sitting just inches away from his uncle’s dead body. I believe him. That does not mean he gets to walk away without consequence, though.
“Cut him loose,” I tell Sergei. “He is going to work for us. He is going to take over his uncle’s job and drive where we tell him, and he is going to identify every man who approached him. If he lies, I will kill him slowly enough that he understands what he should have done differently.”
Sergei nods once.
I turn and walk back up the stairs. I go into the control room and stare at the monitors. The feeds show streets and corners and gates and nothing else. They cannot show me the one thing I need to know—where Anya is.
Sergei enters a minute later and closes the door behind him. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay, because that would be insulting.
“We have three Grinkov fronts operating within a two-mile radius,” he says. “Two clubs, one warehouse office. If you want to send a message, those are the nearest targets.”
“I don’t want to send a message,” I reply.
Sergei pauses. “Then what do you want?”
“I want to find her,” I say, and my voice stays even.
He nods. “Then we hunt.”
That is the difference between Sergei and most men. He does not waste time on emotion. He acknowledges it and converts it into action.
He starts with money, because money makes men talk faster than pain does. Sergei makes calls that freeze accounts tied to Grinkov businesses. He leans on bankers, bookkeepers, and property managers who would rather betray a Bratva boss than lose their lives.
I start with bodies.
The first Grinkov club we hit is a gaudy little place that calls itself a lounge. It has velvet ropes and men in suits who think they’re untouchable because their boss has a reputation. Those men are always the easiest to break because they’ve never faced real danger.
We go in through the back. I bring six men. Sergei stays off-site because someone has to keep the docks moving and the phones answered. I bring two shooters I trust with my life. I bring one man whose job is to keep the door closed and the civilians out.
The back hallway smells like smoke and cheap cologne. A guard turns the corner and sees us. His mouth opens. I shoot him before he can make noise. We move forward, fast enough that the people in the club don’t realize what is happening until it’s already over. Music still plays out front. Women still laugh. Glasses still clink. The front of the house stays in its little dream for an extra few seconds while we clear the back like a fire moving through dry brush.
We find the manager in his office counting cash. He looks up and freezes. His eyes go wide when he sees me.
“Mr. Kovalev,” he says, voice cracking. “I don’t want any trouble.”
I grab him by the collar and yank him out of his chair. He stumbles and tries to recover his dignity. He fails. I slam him into the wall hard enough that the framed photo behind him cracks.
“Where did they take her?” I ask.
His face goes pale. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he manages to cough out.