Only the footsteps ahead of me do. Heavy, purposeful, echoing off the concrete.
“Anton…” Mary’s voice comes through again—small, broken around the edges.
Then Timofey’s: “Move…suka!” A yank, the scrape of her heel dragged across the floor.
They’re twenty yards ahead, cutting left toward a service tunnel that drops to the loading bay.
The map Boris fed me runs behind my eyes: lift, two stairs, service ramp. I move on it as if the route were carved in bone— entrances, dead-ends, the freight lift, two stairwells, a service ramp that leads straight onto Fremont. I don’t need paper; the blueprint lives under my ribs. I’m late. They took the lift. Of course they did.
I break into a sprint, boots eating rubber and concrete. The stairwell door slams as I reach it—two quick locks, then a metal thunk. I pause, chest bruising air, and take the gun out with the slow, easy motion of someone who’s already rehearsed the draw in his sleep. The slide whispers back; round in the chamber. I don’t think about bullets. I think about angles.
Down the stairs I go, three at a time.
At the midway landing, a voice—three men—laughing low, overconfident. They aren’t looking for me. They’re looking for a payday and the warmth of Timofey’s shadow.
I time the door. I breathe. I open it.
The first man hits me before he sees me—wide hook, sloppy reach. I meet him with everything he’s missing: an uppercut into the jaw, elbow into the neck, a shoulder that drives his head into concrete. He goes soft like a puppet with the strings cut.
The second tries to circle; I take his knee out with a planted heel and drive my knee into his face. He chokes out a sound and folds. The third comes in hard with a pool cue of a forearm; I let him collect my forearm and use his momentum—turn, step, snap his wrist across my knee until he howls. Bone breaks in a precise, ugly language.
The service corridor yawns; yellow safety lines run like veins down the concrete. Door signs blink: LOADING — NO ENTRY — STAFF ONLY. Men run at the far end, half-turned by the light. I can hear metal on metal—the sound of a door throwing open anda ramp coming down. Engines. The loading bay is a throat full of heat and diesel.
They’re trying to shove Mary into the SUV.
“Let her go,” I bark, gun raised.
Timofey freezes for half a breath—just long enough to give himself that smug little smile. His hand is still twisted in her hair, and the look on his face says he’s enjoying this.
“Well, look who crawls out of the dark,” he says, dragging her against his chest. “I was starting to wonder which ghost’s been guarding my little problem.” He smirks, recognition flashing in his eyes. “And it’s you. The Reaper. Igor’s dog.”
“Let her go.”
“You brought police,” he says, tone almost playful. “How civic.”
I raise my gun. “You brought me. How suicidal.”
He laughs—short, mean, sharp enough to echo.
“You? Risking your life for a bank clerk? The man who buries witnesses without blinking?” He shakes his head, still grinning. “Oh, Anton. I underestimated your taste. I thought you only killed liabilities.”
Mary thrashes in his grip, breath ragged. “Anton—”
“Quiet,” he snaps, slamming her against the SUV. “I told you to move.”
Her eyes meet mine—wild, desperate, saying,“Don’t let him do this.”
“You want her dead?” I ask. “You’ll have to do it while I’m still breathing.”
He studies me, smile fading by degrees. “You really mean that?”
“I do.”
“Then let’s fix it.” He jerks Mary forward, using her as a shield. “Step closer, and I put one through her. One step, Malikov.”
Two of his men shift out from the shadows, rifles raised. The muzzle lights blink red against the smoke.
I take the step anyway.
