The second man moved to flank him, trying to create a triangle of threat. Volkov didn't react, didn't even shift his weight. Through the crack, I could see his face in profile—completely calm, almost bored. The same expression he'd worn while examining the puppy, like none of this mattered enough to raise his pulse.
"We're looking for someone," the lead Morozov said. "A girl with strange eyes who stole from us."
"Strange eyes," Volkov repeated, like he was tasting the words. "You'll have to be more specific."
"You know what we mean." The flanking man's hand drifted toward his waistband, where the outline of a gun was visible. "Distinctive. Memorable. The kind of eyes you don't forget."
"Sounds like you're describing my ex-girlfriend. But she's in Miami now, married to a dentist. Tragic loss, really. She did this thing with her tongue—"
"This is serious, Volkov." The leader cut him off, anger bleeding into his voice. "She stole something important from Viktor Chenkov. He wants it back."
"And you thought she'd be in my storage unit?" Volkov's tone suggested this was the most ridiculous thing he'd heard all week. "Do I look like I'm running a shelter for wayward thieves?"
"We're checking everywhere," the second man said, moving closer to the false wall. My heart hammered so hard I was sure they could hear it through the panels. "You don't mind, do you?"
Volkov smiled, and even from my limited angle, I could see it was the smile of something that had too many teeth and not enough humanity.
"I do mind, actually," he said conversationally. "This is my private property. You have no warrant, no probable cause, and no invitation. In the legitimate business world, we call this trespassing."
"Legitimate," the leader scoffed. "The Volkovs playing at being real businessmen. Your brother might believe that shit, but we know what you really are."
"Oh?" Volkov's voice dropped an octave, and suddenly the temperature in the storage unit seemed to plummet. "And what am I, exactly?"
The third man, younger than the others, finally spoke up. "You're a killer. Just like us. So stop pretending you give a fuck about property rights and let us search."
The silence that followed was the kind that preceded terrible things. Through the crack, I watched Volkov's head tilt slightly, like a predator hearing prey step on a twig.
"You're right," he said softly. "I am a killer. But unlike you, I'm very particular about where I do my killing. And this storage unit? This is my personal space. My sanctuary. The place I come to be alone with my thoughts and my things. And you three just violated that sanctuary."
The lead man's hand went to his gun. "There are three of us and one of you."
"Yes," Volkov agreed. "That hardly seems fair. You want to call in backup to even the odds? Or would you prefer to leave now, while leaving is still an option?"
Through the crack, I could see the Morozovs exchanging glances.
"We're not leaving without searching," the leader said finally. "If the girl's not here, we go. No problems. But we have to look."
"No," Volkov said simply.
"No?"
"No. You don't have to do anything except leave my property. Now."
The tension ratcheted up another notch, everyone's hands hovering near weapons, everyone calculating odds and angles and acceptable losses. The puppy squirmed in my arms, and I held my breath, terrified he was about to bark or whimper and give us away.
The violence was so fast I almost missed it.
Volkov's elbow crushed the flanking man's throat before he could draw his weapon. The sound was wet and wrong, cartilage compressing into itself like bubble wrap made of meat. The man dropped, hands clawing at his ruined throat, eyes bulging as he tried to suck air through a windpipe that no longer worked.
The leader reached for his gun. Volkov's hand was already moving, something silver flashing from his boot. A ceramic knife, I realized, as it opened the man's jugular in a spray that painted the concrete floor red. The blood arced out in pulses, each heartbeat pumping more onto the floor in a pattern that looked almost artistic if you didn't think about what it meant.
The third man froze in terror. That half-second of hesitation was all Volkov needed. He caught him in a chokehold, his feet actually leaving the ground as Volkov lifted him with one arm. Not killing, not yet. Controlling.
"Why is the girl important?" Volkov's voice was conversational, like he was asking about the weather while slowly cutting off the kid's oxygen. The contrast made my skin crawl.
The man’s legs kicked uselessly, hands clawing at the arm around his throat. His face went from red to purple to a shade that didn't have a name.
"She's . . . she's just . . ." He was gasping, words coming out in desperate spurts between attempts to breathe. "A dirty thief . . . that's all . . ."
