But I'm too far away. Too many bodies are between us. Too many variables I can't control.
"Alina!" Her name tears from my throat, raw and desperate in a way I haven't sounded since I was a boy watching my father's fists come down on my mother.
She doesn't stop, doesn't even slow. Her eyes are locked on the jet, on the two men dragging a small figure up the stairs. Katya. Even from this distance, I can see the girl fighting, her movements uncoordinated but determined.
"Katya!" Alina's scream cuts through the chaos of gunfire and shouting. The girl's head whips around, her eyes finding her sister across the distance, and I see hope flare in her young face.
The Kozlov soldiers see Alina coming too. They shout something in Russian, harsh and urgent, and suddenly, they're dragging Katya back down the stairs. Using her as a shield. One of them pulls a knife, and the blade glints in the harsh security lights as he presses it against the girl's throat.
My blood turns to ice.
I'm running faster now, closing the distance, but I'm still too far. Thirty yards. Twenty-five. My men are converging from multiple angles, but none of us can take the shot. Not with Katya in the way.
"Who has a shot?" I bark into my comm.
"Negative, Pakhan." My sniper's voice is tight with frustration. "The target is using the girl as cover. I can't get a clean angle."
Alina skids to a stop about ten feet from the soldiers, her chest heaving. Up close, I can see the terror in Katya's eyes, the thin line of blood where the knife has already broken skin. The girl is sixteen years old. Just a child. And she's about to die because of the games men like me play.
I force the fury down, deep into the pit of my stomach where it coils like a serpent waiting to strike. I channel it into something colder, sharper. Calculation. Strategy.
I need a different approach.
My hand moves to my side in what appears to be a casual gesture, fingers brushing against my belt. To anyone watching, it looks like I'm simply adjusting my jacket. But my men,positioned in the shadows, will recognize it for what it is—the signal to hold position and wait for my command.
Two taps against my thigh is another sign telling the guys to surround, but don’t engage, as I walk into view. The two men swing their gazes to me, surprise rounding their eyes.
"You have no options," I say, my voice carrying across the tarmac. I keep my weapon lowered, non-threatening, but my finger stays near the trigger. "Your men are dead or captured. The Kozlov family is finished. This is over."
I focus on the younger man. His hand is shaking worse now, and sweat beads on his forehead despite the cool night air. He's terrified. Good. Fear I can work with.
I holster my weapon slowly, deliberately, and raise my hands. Then I take a step forward.
"Don't!" The younger man's voice breaks. "Don't come any closer!"
But I keep moving, slow and steady, my eyes locked on his. I've spent decades perfecting this approach. The calm, controlled Pakhan who's absolutely in command of every situation.
I take another step, close enough now to see the individual beads of sweat on his face. "You're in a bad situation. I understand that. Your bosses sent you on a mission that's gone wrong, and now you're trapped. But you still have choices."
"I don't have choices." His voice is bitter, desperate. "You're Dimitri Morozov. You don't make deals. You don't show mercy."
"I make deals all the time." Another step. I'm fifteen feet away now, close enough that I could rush him if I had to. But that's too risky with the knife at Katya's throat. "That's how I've survivedthis long. So here's my offer. Let the girl go, and you can walk away. I'll even give you a head start."
The older man spits on the ground. "You think we're stupid? The second he lets her go, your men will cut us down."
"Maybe," I admit with a shrug. “But you can't win this fight."
"Then we die fighting." The older man's voice is defiant, but I hear the edge of fear underneath. "Better than whatever you'd do to us."
I shift my attention to him, and I let him see the cold calculation in my eyes. The ruthless Pakhan who's built an empire on blood and fear. "You're right. If you hurt that girl, I will make you suffer in ways you can't imagine. I'll make it last days. Weeks. I'll make sure you beg for death long before I grant it."
The threat hangs in the air, heavy and absolute. I see the older man's confidence waver.
But I'm not done. I turn back to the younger man, and I soften my voice. "But if you let her go, if you show wisdom and mercy, I'll remember that. The Bratva always needs good soldiers. Men who know when to fight and when to fold. Men who understand that survival is more important than pride."
"You'd hire us?" His voice is disbelieving. "After this?"
"I'd consider it." It's not entirely a lie. I've recruited from enemy organizations before. Loyalty can be bought, and a man who's smart enough to know when he's beaten has value. "But first, you have to prove you're worth the investment. Let the girl go."
