Misha pockets the last data stick and lifts his eyes. “We have to assume they turned our old routes,” he suggests, gesturing toward the cones with a look of contempt. “Someone leaked the schedule or read the pattern.”
“We burn the pattern,” I decide. “We make new ones. No route repeats for thirty days. We write a mirror set that looks real from a distance and we populate it with noise. If they reach for it, we close the door.”
Nikolay’s SUV doors slam, the captive wedged between his men in the back seat. The engine rumbles to life. I tap the hood as he rolls forward, and he dips his chin before driving off.
Albert’s vehicle leaves next with our dead.
Misha and I climb into the lead SUV and turn toward the warehouse. For a few minutes, we let the quiet drive with us. Misha adjusts the heat one click. My hands loosen on the wheel. White-hot rage burns out quickly. I prefer the kind that glows steadily and lasts.
The warehouse cranes rise out of the valley like steel trees as we descend. The sun drops west, shadows stretching long across the road. Vega isn’t in the yard when we pull through the gate. The emptiness hits hard, quiet and honest. He’s resting in a warm room, healing from a bullet he never owed, and I hate that I couldn’t make the world kinder for the one creature who deserved it.
Nikolay waits by my office when I walk in. He’s already moved the captive downstairs with a medic and two guards who know how to get answers without raising their voices. He’s sent word to the few people we trust in Seattle to keep an eye on anything that looks off. A mug of coffee sits in his hand. He offers it without a word. I take it and drink, not for the heat, but because sometimes small habits are the only solid things left.
Downstairs, the captive breathes too fast. Upstairs, the map glows red where green should be. The road doesn’t belong to them, and it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the men we lost and the ones I refuse to lose again.
I take the medallion from my pocket and let it rest in my palm before setting it on the desk. The brass is dark against the wood,the emblem worn and foreign, tied to everything that still needs to be answered.
“Prep the room,” I tell Misha. “Bring water, a camera, and patience.”
He exhales a short breath. “Patience is not my strong suit.”
“It will be tonight.”
Outside, the mountain sinks into shadow. Inside, the air grows thick with what’s coming. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a hawk cries. Somewhere below, a man waits to learn the price of his choices.
3
LUKA
The cold air trails in behind me as I step inside the cabin, brushing across the floors before fading into silence. I close the door and pause, letting the quiet fill the room.
The lights downstairs glow in muted pools, soft but dim, enough to see without inviting the outside world in. The hearth holds a few dying embers, more for appearance than warmth. The air carries faint traces of cedar from the paneling and the sharper scent of gun oil that never fully fades from my clothes.
My coat holds the night, smoke, and fuel, clinging to the fabric, and blood, dried to grit, along the sleeves. The adrenaline still hums in my veins, fierce and restless. The calm after violence is the worst part, when everything goes quiet, and you start replaying what is left.
Three drivers gone, glass scattered across the asphalt like ice. Orange cones that belonged to no work crew, and black smoke rising where there should have been only sky. A brass medallion left behind for me to find, with the Sokolov insignia worn down by years of fingers. They are not testing my patience. They are testing my reach.
I pull the medallion from my pocket, turn it once in my hand, and let it fall. It strikes the table with a dull metallic ping, the brass flashing under the lamp. I leave it for the morning.
I cross the lower level without turning on more light. The staircase gives me two quiet creaks and then keeps my steps to itself. The landing is dim and still, the cold from the mountains seeping through the glass as the night presses close. Sage’s door stands a hand’s width open. The lamplight inside is dim. Vega lies at the foot of the bed, his head lifting and tail thumping once when he sees me.
Sage is awake. She sits against pillows with the quilt gathered at her hips. The light edges her cheekbones and paints a soft line along her throat. Worry marks the set of her mouth even as she tries to smooth it away. She looks at my sleeve first, noticing the stains, then searches my face for what she cannot see on the fabric.
“Are you hurt?” she asks quietly.
“It is not my blood.” The words come out rough.
She moves to the edge of the bed and stands, Vega rising beside her. Cautiously, she steps forward, as if she is not sure how close I will let her get. The scent of tea, soap, and warm skin reaches me before her hand does, mixing with the smoke and metal clinging to me.
Her fingers lift toward my sleeve. A faint tremor runs through her, but she keeps moving, calm despite the fear beneath it. If she knew what my hands did tonight, she would not reach for me now.
I catch her wrist before her fingertip meets the blood stain. “Don’t.” It comes out low and harsh, not anger but a warning, an instinct to keep her untouched by my world.
Her pulse flutters against my thumb and then evens. She does not pull free. She studies my face, reading more than I gave her.
Vega exhales and moves closer to her leg, his tail giving a slow wag. He stays alert, watching us both.
She is already drowning in my war. What good is honesty if it only teaches her how deep the water is?
