"What did you bring me?"
Ruslan sets down one case and opens it. Inside lies a weapon that looks like it belongs on an African safari, a tranquilizer rifle with custom modifications.
Ruslan loads a magazine of specialized darts and gives the rifle to me. "Military-grade neurological disruptors combined with a paralytic that preserves consciousness."
I run my fingers along the familiar barrel. This weapon doesn't kill, it transforms living men into prisoners of their own bodies. "How many can he take?"
"Four is survivable. Five if you want him conscious but suffering organ failure within hours." Ruslan hands me a small case. "Six will kill him, but slowly enough that you'll have time."
I nod, calculating ranges in my head. "And if he's enhanced?"
"Already accounted for." Ruslan pulls a syringe from his medical bag. "He's probably running on a stimulant cocktail, probably adrenochrome with synthetic boosters."
He holds out the syringe filled with amber liquid. "You need this."
I step back instinctively. "You know I don't."
"You want her back? Level the field."
The needle gleams in the darkness between us.
"What is it?" I ask, eyes still tracking Kirill's movements.
"Clarity. Focus. Strength. No hallucinations, no crash for eight hours." His expression doesn't change. "I designed it myself. For situations exactly like this."
I extend my arm. The needle slides in, and fire spreads through my blood.
"Thirty seconds to full effect," Ruslan says. "One dart to slow him. Two to drop him. Three to make him suffer."
My vision sharpens dramatically, the world suddenly crystal-clear in the darkness—every ripple on the water, every breath Kirill takes as he secures Fee to the boat.
"Get her back," Ruslan whispers, "I'll make sure he lives to regret taking her."
Through the enhanced focus of the rifle scope, I trace Kirill's position on the sleek boat. The bastard isn't standing exposed; he's huddled against the cabin wall, Fee positioned as his living shield. Her unconscious body slumps against him, head barely two inches from his.
"Anton Baev! You have one minute to show yourself!" He pulls out a knife. "Or I open her carotid and let her bleed out on this deck!"
She's still unconscious. Completely helpless. At this distance, about 150 yards of night air between us, those two inches might as well be nothing.
I shift along the dock. Left brings no advantage. Right offers nothing better. With every angle I try, Fee's skull is directly in my line of fire.
Ruslan's compound sharpens everything—the distant lap of water against hulls, the slight tremor in Kirill's fingers as he drags Fee higher against him.
"Thirty seconds!" Kirill's voice carries across the water. The knife glints under the dock lights, its edge pressing into the delicate skin of Fee's throat.
Fee's body blocks every kill shot. The tranquilizer darts would need to hit specific targets—neck, face—all hidden behind her head. Kirill keeps readjusting her.
"Ruslan," I whisper into the comms. "You have an angle?"
"Negative. He's using the cabin structure for cover from my position, too."
Viktor's voice crackles through. "Boss, no clean shot from any approach. He's locked this down tight."
This isn't luck. Kirill knows we're here, knows our capabilities. He's positioned himself where no shooter can reach him without risking Fee.
Professional. Prepared. Everything I would have done.
"Twenty seconds!"
