This part of the street is quiet, mostly industrial buildings, not even ones with apartments on top of them. A street light flickers pale white light as we approach the lot. A segment of the chain link fence has been unlatched and lies on its side, flat on the ground. We step carefully around it to not rattle the metal chain links.
My stomach roils, remembering this time last year when instead of an old factory, Nate, Leo, Vanessa and I approached a half-built office building in the dead of night. I was shot that night and the scar almost burns at the memory.
We are always getting ourselves in fuckingsituations.
It might be nice to have just a single month with zero situations; no crises for us to handle, no empty buildings to crawl around in the middle of the night, no weapon drops resulting in black eyes.
All of the lights appear to be off through the broken factory windows, but we hear voices around the far side of the building. It would be too risky to just waltz over there, so we find what was once a tall window and climb through the opening.
The factory floor is dusty concrete with various detritus strewn everywhere. Moonlight shines into the space well enough that we can make out a clear-ish path to the far side of the space where a hallway and offices reside, both empty so far as I can tell.
“Maxim is going to fucking kill me,” Sasha mutters, and I roll my eyes. I also feel stressed about Maxim’s worry, but it’s not in my nature to let on.
Plus, I figure if he’s in trouble, he’ll probably forgive me for saving him. Might not forgive Sasha though.
“Yeah well he can’t kill you if he’s already dead, can he?”
“Don’t say that.”
I flex my fist at my side, no more keen than he is to imagine my husband dead.
We walk quietly on, heel to toe keeping in mind not to stomp over the abandoned pieces of wood and metal on the ground. There’s a set of metal stairs we climb, trying to be slow, but they creak anyway, making us tense with every step. On the second floor overlooking the factory, there’s a row of small offices and closets, along with a short hallway.
We can now hear the voices from outside through a metal door at the end of said hall, warm light filtering through the crack at the bottom.
This feels like we’re in a haunted house, just waiting for something to jump out at us at any second. I’m strung so tight, I’d probably shoot first, ask questions later.
There’s an office to our left, one with an old desk and the kind of vintage chair that I know Willa would love if only it was in good shape and priced way too high at an antique shop. Behindthe desk is a big window looking out over the factory’s garage, and as I inch slowly inside, I can see more of the lower level.
There’s a group of six men, most of which I do not recognize. As I look longer, though, I realize with a sinking in my gut, that there are familiar faces among them.
“Motherfuckers,” Sasha spits, still whispering. He gets out his phone and sends off a series of texts while I squint down at the faces. Nikolai, most notably, stands with his hands in his pockets. As unfortunate as it is to see him here, it doesn’t surprise me. It’s the face next to him that has me gasping.Samuelsits in a metal chair, elbows on his knees looking uneasy.
“Samuel—”
“He wouldn’t,” Sasha says, and he sounds so sure. The concern clouding his eyes speaks a different story, though.
“What are they looking at?”
They’re all facing something under the lip of the balcony that we can’t see, watching something unravel with smug satisfaction, though it looks like it’s turning Samuel’s stomach.
“We can’t go this way. They’ll see us,” I say. “Best thing we can do is retrace our steps, wait for backup, and enter via that door.” I point to an exterior door in the far right corner, all of their bodies pointed away from it.
Sasha agrees, sending off a text to his people while I do the same in a message to the family group chat. Leo and Sean like the message in response.
“Let’s do it then,” I say, already backing out of the office, when the metal doors at the end of the hall bangs open, footsteps sounding with them. Sasha and I both freeze, still concealed mostly in the office, but my leg is sticking out of the door.
As silently as I can, I pull it back into the office, trying not to breathe or make a sound.
“I told you he was made of steel,” a man with a heavy Russian accent says.
“Everyone has their limits,” another voice says, this one feminine.
Sasha and I make startled eye contact, both recognizing the voice.
“He will quickly reach his when we findher,” she says. She sounds calculating and confident, so much so that I could almost pretend it’s not who I’m certain it is.
“She still hasn’t shown up at the penthouse,” the man says. I’m startled to realize they’re talking about me.
