“Copy.” He heads off, vanishing into the night.
I tap my mic. “Dima, Lev—cover the exits.” Two clicks answer. The tech adds that he’ll hold audio and mirror what he can.
Marek’s crew has a smoke by the dumpster, then heads east to a rundown auto shop. Inside, the lights stutter when someone hits the panel.
I text Dmitri.
Where is Jack heading?
Westbound Q. Switching lines. Not home.
Keep eyes. I’ll pluck the Bear.
This has to stay clean and quiet. Noise brings cops. Tonight we need answers, not bodies. The plan is simple; we grab the leader, not the pack. We separate the men, no bloodshed unless absolutely necessary.
Snow falls as the street quiets, a blank page waiting for a pen. I text the tech.
If they move, let me know.
A green checkmark appears in response.
The outline of Jack’s plan is unclear. But I get the idea—kill me, possibly even kill Teresa. Volkov is still a question mark. He could be pulling the strings or it could be a set up. It’s unclear at this point.
The shop door opens. Marek steps out alone, collar up, takeout bag in his hand. The others stay inside. Perfect.
I step from the shadows of the doorway. The cold cuts clean. Dima’s silhouette waits on a roof. Lev ghosts a corner.
Marek turns into the alley. I catch his sleeve like an old friend bumming a smoke. He looks up with total surprise. I clasp a hand around his mouth and pull him into the gap, forearm under his jaw. He doesn’t fight. The bag hits the ground, food spilling. Two body shots, one knee kick, and he folds. I snap zip ties tight around his wrists.
I drag him inside the building next door; an old paint room with concrete floors and plastic sheets. I sit him in a chair, tie hisankles with zip ties, then stuff a gag in his mouth, muffling his shouts.
I say nothing. He’s breathing hard and fast. I pull off my gloves, fold them once, and place them where I placed his phone—on a table just out of reach. I take out my gun and show it to him, then make ashhgesture with my finger in front of my mouth.
He gets the message, nodding once. I remove the gag.
He tries bravado. “You Angeloff?”
I laugh. Stupid question. “You know who I am.”
“You doing your own dirty work now?” he asks, chest heaving.
“Sometimes I like the personal touch.”
He goes quiet, deciding to wait me out. I reach toward him, pressing two fingers into the brachial plexus, just inside the shoulder. Pain lights behind his eyes. I take my hand away.He grunts. No screaming. Good, he’s disciplined.
“Names,” I demand. “Client. Middleman. Tell me who’s behind this.”
He works his jaw, but he says nothing.
I step over to the table, lift his phone, and open it. I hold it in front of his face to unlock. A message blinks. I scroll until I spot a new thread, one called Ferryman. I read a line aloud.
Message from client: Price doubled if Angeloff goes down too.
His jaw tightens as he stares at me. There it is.
“Who’s the Ferryman?” I ask.
He shrugs like he’s annoyed, like I’m wasting his time.
