Hassan’s voice was immediate. “On my way. I’ll meet you fifteen minutes out.”
The list rolled on, Sadiq for the diversion on the north approach; Laila for medical and extraction triage, as well as a few others just to cover all my bases.
My driver cut a corner, and the industrial docks rose up before us. I saw piles of stacked cranes, sleeping warehouses, and the occasional blue glow of a security light.
I texted Nadia a green-ring emoji—our signal to start the blackout countdown. She answered with a single checkmark. Jules pinged a photo of the west roof, crosshairs mapped in charcoal. Hassan sent ETA for vans: five minutes.
At 11:50 the driver rolled to a stop two blocks out. We killed the lights. Through the windshield I watched men move like ghosts. Hassan’s vans slipped into place, Jules’ crew vanished behind parapets. I opened the car door as Nadia’s blackout rolled over us.
I slid out. My team assembled around me, their faces all gleaming with the same hard calm that was rolling through me.
I checked my phone—11:54.
“Remember,” I said, voice barely above a whisper, “no fireworks unless I say. Move like you don’t want to be seen. We get them and go.”
We moved like a single unit. By the time we reached the perimeter, the hulks of hangars loomed like sleeping beasts.
My hands were steady. My heart, stupidly though, wasn’t. Then I thought of the one thing I’d never admit: I was finally angry enough to stop letting others clean up after me.
It was time to handle things myself.
We crept past the first line of containers, each one stacked like coffin blocks under the floodlights. There, waiting for us in the center of the open yard, were the people who’d stolen Dmitri and Kara.
There was a woman standing there, and I could only assume it was the one who’d left the message on my phone, Katya. She stood there in a long black coat and when I cleared my throat, she turned her head suddenly and her gaze fell on me.
“Roman Markov,” she said, her tone a lazy drawl that didn’t quite hide the tremor beneath it. “Apparently, you’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”
“I get that a lot.”
I stopped a few paces away, letting my people form a half-circle behind me. “Where are my brother and the girl?”
Her smile faltered, just a little. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Well,” I retorted, annoyed and a little bit nervous now, “here I am.”
Then a few men stepped out from the shadows, and I recognized them at once.
To Katya’s left, a lean figure lit a cigarette and grinned. Viktor Dragunovof the Dragunov Bratva, one of three brothers thatruled a dynasty in their own right here in Dubai. My family had never had any direct conflict with them, but they’d never quite been our allies either.
Him being here right now surprised me quite a bit. I didn’t like surprises.
The Dragunovs were old-school Bratva—Russian through and through. They weren’t the kind of family you saw in slick suits and penthouse boardrooms, although they’d play the part if they needed to. They had a reputation for keeping things simple: no theatrics, no mercy, no second chances. When they showed up, people died cleanly and quietly.
Beside him stood Grigor Petrov, the Dragunovs’ advisor. Grigor was older, built like a dockworker, with the eyes of a man who’d spent a lifetime working through every angle of life and death.
A third man lingered at the edge of the yard, face half-lit by the glow of a tablet. He wasn’t a Dragunov by blood but might as well have been. His name was Demyan Vostrikov, their tech man: a codebreaker and surveillance expert who’d made a fortune turning firewalls into open doors. He was quiet and incredibly efficient, from what I’d heard, and probably already listening to half the conversations in Dubai. If Dmitri could have him on our payroll, I’m sure he would.
“Roman Markov, huh,” Viktor said with a heavy Russian accent and an almost cheerful tone. “You know, I heard you were prettier. I’m disappointed.”
“That makes me sad,” I drawled.
He smirked. “Awww.”
Grigor didn’t waste time with pleasantries. His gaze pinned me in place, cold and exact. “You come with rifles ready? You misunderstand our hospitality, Markov.”
I smiled, thin and humorless. “Hospitality looks different where I come from. I usually bring wine. You steal my brother.”
Viktor chuckled. “He’s got jokes. I like him already.”
