If I had gone, I would be dead.
I read the text again. The words remain unchanged. My body reacts—a cold wave of adrenaline followed by a slow, clinical anger.
Someone knew where I was meant to be. Someone targeted my location. When I didn't show, they torched the shipment anyway, just to prove they could reach me.
The list of people who knew my schedule is short enough to carve onto a bullet.
My father.
Boris.
The logistics man currently in federal custody.
And Maksim.
Maksim has access to my calendar through the security protocols. He was locked in this room with me when the hit
occurred. His hands are the ones that made my coffee exactly the way I like it.
I'm still staring at my phone when he steps out of the bathroom.
He's dressed in tactical black: a fitted shirt, cargo trousers, and a weapon holstered at his hip. I know there's a backup piece tucked into his boot, even if I can't see it. His eyes lock onto mine immediately.
He doesn't blink as he scans my face, assessing the situation.
"Report," he commands, not waiting for a question.
"The shipment—the one I was supposed to oversee," I reply.
His posture shifts subtly, a change in weight, and a muscle in his jaw twitches.
"You were scheduled to be on site," he states.
"Yes."
"You didn't go."
"No."
The silence between us is heavy. Maksim looks at me with an intensity that borders on insubordination. Beneath his professional facade, I detect relief—sharp and violent.
"The Estate," he says. "Your father will want an explanation."
"My father will want a head on a spike." I set the phone down. "Get the car. We leave in ten."
Today,we move heavily.
The route to the Estate cuts through contested ground—neighborhoods where the Baranov name buys silence and others where it buys a bullet.
Maksim has arranged a convoy: two chase cars and one lead vehicle. The drivers are pulled from the inner circle—men whose families live in homes we pay for.
I sit in the back of the armored
Mercedes while Maksim takes the front passenger seat, a deviation from the norm. Usually, he sits next to me, a human shield. Today, he's positioned forward, scanning the road with tense shoulders. He's angry.
"Advance team reports clear through Division," the driver says. "Construction on Ashland, but no bogeys."
Maksim doesn't respond. His hand rests near the SIG Sauer on his thigh, fingers poised to turn violence at the twitch of a muscle.
