“I’m not disrespecting your father. I’m stating facts. He was loyal. He was useful. And when he stopped being useful, he got buried. Just like you will if you keep playing this game.”
Boris takes the on-ramp to I-15. The speedometer climbs. We’re making good time.
“You don’t need to take shit from anyone,” Lev continues. “Not Igor. Not his psycho nephew. You’re the Reaper. You’re the one they call when they need real work done. But you act like you owe them something.”
“Idoowe them something.”
“What? A lifetime of servitude, then a bullet when you outlive your usefulness?”
My hands clench into fists. Because he’s not wrong. And that’s what makes it worse.
Papa died loyal. Died believing that honor meant something in this world. Died thinking Igor would take care of his son because that’s what family does.
And here I am, almost two decades later, making the same fucking mistakes.
That’s when the world explodes.
The first shot takes out our rear window. Safety glass spiders and collapses inward, spraying across the back seat. Dima rolls left, gun already in his hand.
“Contact rear!” he shouts.
Boris doesn’t panic. Hands steady on the wheel, he accelerates smooth and clean. Professional. But I can see his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
Two motorcycles. Black sport bikes, riders in dark helmets. They came out of nowhere, threading between traffic like ghosts.
The second shot punches through the passenger door. Lev ducks, cursing in Russian.
“How many?” I ask, pulling my Glock.
“Two bikes, maybe more in cars,” Dima reports, scanning the mirrors.
I twist to look through the destroyed rear window. The bikes are close. Too close. Professional riders, moving like they’ve done this before.
This isn’t random road rage. This is a hit.
Boris takes a hard right, tires screaming, trying to lose them in surface streets. But the bikes follow, weaving through traffic like they know exactly where we’re going.
“They’re herding us,” I realize. “Away from main roads. Toward—”
The third shot comes from ahead. Muzzle flash from a sedan parked in an alley. The bullet shatters our windshield, and Boris has to fight to keep the car straight.
“Ambush,” Dima states. “They planned this.”
Multiple vehicles. Coordinated attack. Professional execution.
Timofey’s not wasting time.
Boris yanks the wheel hard left, trying to break the trap, but it’s too late. The sedan pulls out, cutting off our escape route. The bikes close from behind.
I see the shooter lean out of the sedan’s passenger window. Rifle. Military precision.
“Down!” I shout.
The bullet catches me high on the ribs, spinning me sideways. Hot fire spreads across my chest. Blood seeps through my shirt, dark and warm.
Not fatal. But enough to send a message.
Lev returns fire through the broken rear window. The bikes scatter, but they don’t retreat. Just repositioning.
