Trucks idle in a slow procession, each one checked, unloaded, reloaded. Men pace in clusters, smoking, murmuring in Russian, keeping watch.
I volunteered for this shift without hesitation, smiling just enough to make it seem like dedication instead of calculation. Nobody questioned me. A lawyer keeping an eye on the paperwork for a late-night shipment isn’t strange; it looks loyal, even helpful. Inside, though, my chest is tight. This is my chance. My best one yet.
I move through the warehouse with a clipboard in hand, the role fitting like a costume I’ve worn for years. My heels click softly against concrete, drowned out by the grind of pallets and the bark of orders. Eyes skim past me without suspicion.
They see a Bratva lawyer doing her job. They don’t see the coil of tension buried in my ribs, the weight of the burner phone in my pocket, the camera hidden in my watch.
The security feed sits in a corner room, a booth of monitors watched by a man too tired to care. I lean in with a polite nod, setting a stack of forms on his desk.
“Need to cross-check these manifests against tonight’s shipments. Orders from upstairs.”
He shrugs, barely looking up. His attention stays fixed on a game streaming on his phone, earbuds in one ear. He waves me through the door, already halfway tuned out. Perfect.
I step behind the monitors, scrolling through the logs with calm precision. My fingers slip against the switch panel, timed carefully. Thirty seconds of static across the feeds, no longer. Too much would draw suspicion. Thirty seconds is all I need.
The moment the cameras blink to black, I slip into the back office.
The room smells faintly of paper, ink, stale cigarettes. Fluorescent light hums above, spilling over shelves stacked with binders and boxes. A desk sits against the far wall, its drawers locked tight. I kneel quickly, pulling a slim tool from my coat pocket. The lock clicks open with soft resistance, metal groaning just enough to set my nerves on edge.
Inside are files, marked not with names but with coded symbols, hand-scribbled on the tabs in dark ink. I flip through quickly, heart hammering as I snap photos one by one. Symbols, numbers, shipping routes, offshore accounts—all the fragments I need. My hands move faster than my breath, each shutter click a drumbeat in my ears.
I dig deeper, reaching the bottom drawer. More files, older ones, some frayed from handling. I photograph those too, though I don’t have time to linger. Every second is borrowed.
When I’ve taken enough, I slip a tiny listening device from my bag and press it against the underside of the desk. The adhesive clings instantly, hidden in shadow. My handler will hear everything said in this office from now on: conversations, plans, betrayals.
The cameras flicker back to life on the monitors outside. My thirty seconds are up.
I close the drawer quietly, lock it again, smooth the papers into place. My pulse is a roar in my ears as I straighten, brushing invisible dust from my coat. For a moment, I glance around the office—one last look to be sure nothing betrays me.
Then I slip out, calm and steady, as if I’d only been checking manifests like I said.
The man at the monitors doesn’t glance up. He curses at his game, jabs his phone, and mutters under his breath. I leave him to it, walking back across the warehouse floor with measured steps.
By the time I step into the cold air outside, my lungs ache. I suck in a sharp breath, the fog thick against my skin, and force myself to walk slow. Not too fast, not too eager.
The burner phone feels heavy in my pocket, heavier with the photos and recordings waiting inside. I make my way to the drop point—an abandoned mailbox on the corner of an industrial block, rust streaked and forgotten. The streets here are silent, save for the hum of the river and the distant groan of a ship pulling through the harbor.
I glance once over my shoulder. Empty.
The burner slides from my pocket, slipping into the narrow slot. I linger only long enough to hear the faint clatter inside before stepping back, my pulse thrumming wild.
One last step. I pull out my personal phone, thumbs flying over the screen. A coded message, vague enough to mean nothing if intercepted, but clear enough for the right eyes.
Package left. Window tight.
I hit send, then delete it instantly.
The phone feels slick in my hand as I slip it away.
Walking away from the drop, the sound of my boots against the sidewalk seems too loud. Each step echoes, my heart racing faster than it should. Any moment, I expect headlights to cut across me, voices to call my name, a hand to clamp around my arm. The paranoia is a living thing, curling around my spine.
The street stays quiet. The night stays still.
I cross the bridge back toward the heart of the city, fog curling low over the water. My breath comes sharp, my chest still tight. I remind myself, again and again, that this isn’t betrayal. This isn’t weakness.
This is justice.
Every file I steal tonight, every second of audio that little device records—it’s a step closer to gutting the men who bled my father out of this world. A step closer to pulling Alexei Sharov’s empire down around him.
