With these men and their skills, we might pull this off.
Chapter 32
Kolya
Against the night sky, the warehouse looms like a hulking monster of corrugated metal and broken windows. I adjust my earpiece, listening to my team bark their confirmation of the plan.
With every breath, my ribs scream. All my injuries from the safe house attack throb, but pain is irrelevant now.
Only the adjusted mission matters.
Find Chloe.
Kill Gio.
The rest is just noise.
I check my weapons one last time—pistol with silencer, spare magazines, the knife against my ankle—and nod at Max.
Dressed in varying shades of black-and-gray tactical gear, he blends into the night with predatory stillness.
My earpiece crackles. “Vanya in position. Ready to charm the pants off these assholes.”
A second voice follows. “Kirill set. I have eyes on the east entrance. Four tangos. Two smoking. One with a visible assault rifle.”
I press my finger to my ear. “Alexei?”
“Back loading dock secured. Their patrol schedule is sloppy. Going silent now.”
Max and I exchange a glance. His eyes darken, signaling his eagerness to slip the leash.
A shiver crawls across my neck. “Execute.”
Vanya saunters toward the entrance with empty hands and a casual, loose gait. Even from this distance, I can see the transformation from a deadly enforcer to a charming, tipsy businessman who’s lost his way. He stumbles forward, slurring. “Genblemen, think I took a wrong turn s’mere. My GPS’s abs’lute shit?—”
The guards tense and draw their weapons.
Vanya raises his palms in exaggerated surrender, then wobbles as if he can barely hold them up. He starts spewing a stream of bullshit about a poker game and a wrong address.
One guard lowers his weapon. Another laughs.
From Kirill’s position, the first silenced shot whispers in the night. The guard on the far left drops to the ground. The second one follows a heartbeat later.
Vanya’s holding a pistol in each hand before I can even blink. He dispatches the remaining guards with two clean shots and holsters one gun before pressing a finger to his ear while scanning the area. “Front clear.”
That’s our cue.
Max and I glide like ghosts across the roof of the neighboring building toward the warehouse. When we reach a six-foot gap of empty air, we pause.
I leap first, landing in a controlled roll that ignites fresh agony in my cracked ribs. Every breath slices my lungs.
Max follows soundlessly.
We creep over to the skylight. The dim emergency lights reveal the empty warehouse floor below.
I exhale into my mic. “Ready.”
“Package location confirmed.” Kirill’s response gives me more hope. “East side, second floor office complex. Twelve tangos between your position and target.”
