Inside, there are maybe twenty Kozlov associates. Workers, distributors, enforcers. They’re not prepared for a full assault.
It’s over in four minutes.
Bodies on the floor. Blood on the concrete. Product scattered everywhere—bricks of cocaine, bundles of cash, weapons.
“Burn it,” I tell Silas.
He nods to his men. They pour gasoline over everything. The product. The cash. The bodies.
One match.
The warehouse explodes into flames, black smoke billowing into the afternoon sky. We’re back in the cars before the fire trucks arrive, already moving toward the next target.
A nightclub on the Strip. Kozlov front for money laundering.
A restaurant in Summerlin. Distribution point.
An auto body shop near the airport. Chop shop for stolen vehicles.
One by one, we hit them all.
By midnight, seven Kozlov operations are burning. Thirty-four associates are dead. The police are scrambling to understand what’s happening, why Vegas is suddenly experiencing what looks like a gang war.
Alexi stays with me through all of it, his face pale but determined. He shoots a man trying to escape from the nightclub. He doesn’t hesitate, just pulls the trigger and keeps moving.
He’s his father’s son.
“We have a problem,” Silas says around 2:00 AM. We’re in the car between targets, covered in soot and blood. “The FBI is getting involved. They’re calling this domestic terrorism.”
“Good.” I reload my gun. “Maybe they’ll find Savannah before I have to kill every Kozlov associate in the state.”
“Ledger, we need to be smart about this. If the feds come after you?—”
“I don’t care.” I look at him. “Do you understand? I don’t care about the FBI or the police or the consequences.”
“What if Dmitri kills her because you’re destroying his operations?”
“Then he dies too. And his family. And everyone who ever helped him. It’s as simple as that.” I chamber a round. “But he won’t kill her yet. He wants me to suffer first. Wants me to watch her die. That gives us time.”
“Time for what?”
“To make him so desperate that he makes a mistake.” I look out at the burning city. “Every operation we destroy makes him weaker. Every associate we kill reduces his resources. Eventually, he’ll have to move. And when he does, we’ll find the warehouse.”
My phone buzzes. I’ve been sent a photo and a text from an unknown number.
It’s Savannah. Same warehouse. But this time she’s sitting up, hands still bound. Her eyes are closed. And there’s a gun pressed to her temple.
The message below reads:Keep burning my operations. See what happens.
I stare at the photo. At the gun against my wife’s head. At her exhausted, terrified face.
And I make my decision.
“New plan,” I tell Silas. “Contact every informant we have. Every criminal, every cop, every person who might know where the Kozlovs operate. Offer them anything they want—money, immunity, protection. Someone knows where that warehouse is.”
The phone rings. Dmitri.
“You’re destroying my life’s work,” he says. His voice is strained now, the calm facade cracking.
