I lower him to the floor and check his pulse. Nothing.
I can't even process the kill before movement stirs at the end of the hallway.
It’s another figure, looking right at me. Looking at the body at my feet. The blood on my hands.
Young. Probably the rookie from earlier.
His eyes go wide, and his mouth opens.
Fuck.
He turns and runs, shouting in Russian. "Intruder! Intruder on board!"
Shit. There goes the element of surprise.
I give chase. Boots pound loudly on metal flooring. But another man appears from a side corridor. Older with a scarred face. His gun is already coming up from his belt.
He's trained. I can see it in how he moves. How he positions himself.
But training doesn't beat instinct or desperation.
I close the distance before he can aim properly. My hands find his head. The hold is automatic, practiced thousands of times, and perfected.
"Is this drugs or trafficking?"
He spits in my face
Bold move for a dead man.
I snap his neck. The crack echoes in the narrow space.
I pull my gun. I hate it when it comes to this. Shooting feels impersonal. Just another thug with a weapon instead of someone who trained for years in close combat.
I wait for more men to come flooding down the hallway. For backup. For the ship to mobilize against the intruder.
Nothing comes.
That's strange. No way this whole operation runs on five men. Even Dmitri isn't that fucking stupid.
Unless he doesn't trust his own people. He could keep operations compartmentalized so no one knows too much. Smart tactically but it creates gaps. Weaknesses.
Good. I'll exploit every fucking gap I find.
I move deeper, checking rooms as I go. Storage areas. Crew quarters. All empty or holding nothing useful.
Every empty room makes my chest tighter, makes the rage build higher.
I find the captain's quarters at the end of a corridor, the door slightly open. Light spills out into the dark hallway. There’s movement inside. Someone’s packing in a hurry.
I push the door open with my boot, gun raised.
A man’s there. Gray beard. Maybe sixty. Not the harmless grandfather type, though. Bratva tattoos cover his visible skin. Arms. Neck. Stars on his shoulders that mean he's done serious time. A cathedral probably decorates his back under that shirt.
He’s been in this life that long and still just a ship captain? That doesn't track unless he fucked up somewhere. Unless he's been demoted. Sidelined.
Then I see the counter.
Bricks of cocaine. Dozens of them stacked in neat rows and a large duffel bag open next to them. Half full of product.
