We breached through the south entrance, low and fast. The interior was chaos, bodies moving in shadows, muzzle flashes lighting up the dark like strobe lights. I caught sight of a Zeta enforcer taking cover behind a forklift, trading shots with someone upstairs. Another sprawled on the concrete, blood pooling beneath him.
I didn’t stop to count the dead.
My target was deeper inside. Sebastian. The bastard who wore Douglas’s face in my memories. The ghost who’d stolen from Bratva, who’d murdered Barbara’s mother, who’d held that video over her head like a knife for five years.
I moved through the firefight like water through cracks. One of Sebastain’s henchmen swung toward me, raising his weapon. I put two rounds in his chest before he could squeeze the trigger. He dropped, and I stepped over him without breaking stride.
Timur was behind me, his presence solid and reassuring. Drew had split off to cover the west wing. Damir was handling the perimeter, making sure no one slipped out the back. We’d planned this down to the second. Every angle covered. Every exit sealed.
Sebastian had nowhere to run.
I heard boots on metal—someone fleeing up the stairs. My pulse didn’t spike. It stayed steady, controlled, the way it always did when I was locked into a mission. I sprinted for the stairwell, boots slamming against rusted steps that groaned under my weight. The sound echoed through the warehouse, mixing with the gunfire and shouts below.
Second floor. Third. The stairs ended at a rusted door that hung half-open, revealing a storage wing filled with empty crates and debris. I shoved through, gun raised, sweeping the space.
There.
Sebastian stumbled into view, his face pale and slick with sweat. He’d lost his jacket somewhere. His shirt was torn. Blood streaked his temple—probably from a grazing shot. He looked exactly like he had in Barbara’s nightmares, only now he looked terrified.
Good.
“Kirill.” His voice cracked. “Listen, we can—”
I didn’t let him finish.
I closed the distance in three strides and drove my fist into his ribs. The impact was satisfying—bone against bone, the sharp exhale of air leaving his lungs. He crumpled, gasping,and I grabbed the back of his shirt, hauling him upright before slamming him into a steel support beam.
His head bounced off the metal with a dullclang.
“That’s for Barbara,” I said.
I hit him again. Harder this time. My knuckles split against his cheekbone, but I didn’t feel it. Adrenaline dulled everything except the pure, crystalline focus of the moment. Blood sprayed from his nose, painting the beam behind him in dark streaks.
“And that’s for her mother.”
Another punch. His lip split. Teeth cracked. He tried to raise his hands, tried to shield his face, but I was faster. Stronger. Angrier. Every blow carried five years of Barbara’s terror, every ounce of pain she’d carried alone.
“For the video.” Punch. “For the blackmail.” Punch. “For every fucking nightmare you gave her.”
Sebastian’s legs gave out. He would’ve collapsed if I wasn’t holding him up by his shirt. His face was unrecognizable now—swollen, bloody, a mess of torn skin and broken bones. I felt nothing but satisfaction.
This was justice. Not the kind they taught in law books. The kind that lived in dark places, in blood and broken teeth.
“Kirill.”
The voice came from behind me—calm, accented, carrying authority. I turned, still gripping Sebastian’s collar, and found myself facing a man I’d only seen in surveillance photos. Thick gold chain glinting against his neck. Snake eyes that missed nothing. A pistol already drawn, though not aimed at me.
Los Zetas’ leader.
“We had a deal,” he said in English, his tone almost pleasant. “You get your revenge. We get our money.”
I glanced past him. Three more Zetas flanked the entrance, weapons ready but not raised. Professional. Waitingfor orders. Andrei emerged from the shadows behind them, his tailored suit somehow still immaculate despite the carnage below. He carried a tablet, his expression cold and businesslike.
“The accounts,” Andrei said, addressing the Zeta leader. “We need access codes.”
The Zeta leader gestured to Sebastian with his pistol. “From him.”
I looked down at the broken man in my grip. Sebastian’s eyes were barely open, his face a ruin of blood and bone. But he was conscious. Barely. That was all we needed.
