I’m moving before conscious thought catches up, phone already dialing Viktor.
“Elena’s gone. Pull all exterior feeds from the last thirty minutes.”
The security center erupts into controlled chaos. Within minutes they have her route—over the east wall, through the alley, heading toward the metro.
Then the feeds cut out. She disappeared into a dead zone with no cameras.
My phone rings. Unknown number.
“Aleksandr Sharov.” The voice is Artyom Petrov. “I have something that belongs to you.”
Rage turns molten. “Where is she?”
“Safe. For now. She’s quite beautiful, your wife. Delicate. Breakable. She fought when we intercepted her escape attempt. Impressive spirit.”
Escape attempt. So he knows she was running. Walked right into his hands trying to get away from me.
“What do you want?”
“What you took from me. My operations, my people, my territory. You dismantled everything because you believed lies about the Lawrence family.” He pauses. “I have your pregnant wife bound in a warehouse. Unless you agree to my terms—withdrawal from seized territories, financial compensation, and dissolution of your marriage—I start removing pieces of her.”
Pregnant.
The word hits like a bullet.
“You have two hours,” Artyom continues. “After that, negotiations end.”
The line goes dead.
“Lock down the city,” I tell Viktor. “Every border, every checkpoint. Contact every informant. I want locations on every Petrov property.” I pause. “And get me Sergei.”
Sergei appears within minutes. “Sir?”
“Petrov knew Elena would run today. Knew her exact route, timing, which cameras were down. There’s a leak. Someone told him when and where to intercept her.” I pace. “Who has access to our security schedules?”
“Internal team only. Five men besides Viktor and myself.”
“Background them all. Someone sold us out.”
He leaves. Intelligence comes in fragments—Petrov activity near the industrial district, a warehouse secured overnight, coordinates matching a property I returned to Petrov months ago.
I don’t wait for confirmation. I take twenty men and go.
We hit the warehouse fast and hard. Breach from three points simultaneously. Gunfire erupts. I move through it with singular focus, killing anyone between me and the back room.
The door is reinforced steel. I blow the lock and kick it open.
Elena is inside. Bound to a chair, wrists zip-tied, face pale and bruised. Alive.
Artyom Petrov stands behind her, gun pressed to her temple.
“You’re early,” he says calmly. “Drop your weapon or she dies.”
I lower my gun slowly.
Elena moves before Artyom can react. Throws her weight sideways, tipping the chair. His shot goes wide.
I’m moving before the echo fades. Grab Artyom’s wrist, twist until bones crack. He tries to fight. I slam him against the wall. Once. Twice.
