“What do you want from me?”
His voice sharpens. “Nothing, yet. But if you make a move, you tell me. We don’t tolerate unsanctioned crossings.”
Meaning: if I act without clearing it first,I’m dead too.
I swallow. “Understood.”
“Good, and Nikolai?”
“Yeah?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone, knuckles white.
Marcus, Walter, Joe... the puzzle’s almost complete.Marcus is moving people. Walter is bankrolling it. And Joe? If thatwashim at the safe house, he’s managing it. But how the fuck did Joe get on Walter’s radar? Has Walter been protecting him all this time? Why? And this Marcus guy from Atlanta… is this just an expansion? Or something more?
I stare out at the dark streets below, dread curling in my gut. I used to think we were chasing a single monster. This feels less like a network and more like a hydra: cut one head, two more grow back. I’m not sure we’re ready for what happens when we start to dismantle it.
I can’t sit still after Volk’s call. Every instinct is screamingmove, but if I move too fast, I’ll miss something.
Instead, I pull out the encrypted laptop stashed in my closet. It’s already patched into a few of the Bratva’s tracking nets, thanks to Volk, and it’s linked to a contact in Atlanta who owes me favors and happens to have access to street-level surveillance feeds.
The last payment Marcus made flagged a location: a warehouse tied to one of Walter’s shell companies. I send off a quick coded request for any camera pulls in a five-block radius over the last two months.
It takes hours, but I don’t even notice the time passing. Nights long fallen, and I’m half a bottle of whiskey deep, fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the desk.
Finally, the files come in. I start scrubbing through them. Frame by frame. One warehouse feed, then the street cams. There’s nothing.
Until... two weeks ago. Friday night. A black Escalade pulls up.
I lean closer.
The man I’ve identified as Marcus gets out first, wearing a sleek suit, phone in hand, cocky as hell. Typical. He’s talking to someone in the passenger seat.
Then she steps out, and my heart stops. Petite. Drowning in a man’s jacket. Strutting in six-inch heels. Her hair’s darker, her face thinner. But there’s no fucking way I’m wrong.
“Lina,” I whisper.
She’s alive. Not just alive… she’s right fucking there. In Atlanta. Walking into a building with Marcus.
I pause the feed, rewind, play it again. My hands shake.
Then, a second figure steps out behind her. A tall guy, built like a weapon. He doesn’t blink. Watches her like it’s his job. Watches Marcus like he’s a problem.
I scrub forward, analyzing every movement. The man keeps close to her, like he’s... protecting her? What the hell is going on?
I sit back hard, pulse thundering in my ears. She’s alive. She’s with Marcus and some unknown player. And none of this makes sense.
I replay the footage again and again, learning every second. Then, I start making a list.
Identify the unknown man.
Find out where they went after this.
Find outwhy the hell Lina is with Marcus.
