My glove catches on a jagged edge of the antenna mount. I pull, too frustrated to be careful, and the ground wire snaps.
I don't scream. I don't curse. I simply stare at the broken connection for three seconds, counting to ten the way Alexei taught me. Then I reach into the duffel, find the electrical tape, and strip the wire with my teeth. The copper tastes like iron and old pennies. I redo the connection, my fingers steadying as the adrenaline of the task takes over.
The weapon I’m becoming doesn't have time for tantrums. It only has time for the mission.
The message is a double-edged blade. One side for the father who discarded me; one for the master who hunted me.
To Viktor:The heir lives. He knows the cost of the funeral. A meeting is required to discuss the return of the keys. 'The flowers on the pillow were always white.'
That phrase was the last thing my mother whispered before her heart stopped. Viktor told me that when I was twelve, a rare moment of vulnerability he likely regretted ever since. It is the only proof of life he will believe.
To Ivan:The asset offers a trade. Full documentation of the Petrenko northern logistics in exchange for a clean exit. Meet at the Khimki warehouse. Authentication: Delta-Seven-Niner.
I extracted that tag from Alexei’s delirium. It’s a high-level Baranov clearance code that will light up Ivan’s monitors like a flare.
Both men will assume the other has compromised the frequency. Neither will trust the other enough to verify the source. They will come expecting to find me—a weak, broken prince ready to be reclaimed or ended. They will find each other instead.
I speak the cipher into the magnetic reel, my voice a flat, dead drone. I transmit. The burst is a single pulse of energy that vanishes into the gray dawn, carrying the poison I’ve distilled from three weeks of agony.
I climb back into the Niva. The interior smells of wet wool and the sharp, chemical tang of Alexei’s infection. I put my hand on his neck. His skin is like a heating element. The antibiotics aren't enough. He needs a surgical suite and a doctor who doesn't report to a Pakhan.
“How bad?” he whispers, his eyes cracking open. They are bloodshot, the gray irises clouded with a film of pain.
“Manageable,” I lie. I can see the red tracking lines of the sepsis beginning to creep past the bandage on his side. “We’re almost at the staging area. I’ll get you settled, then I’ll finish the work.”
He looks at me. He knows I’m lying. He knows the medical math as well as I do.
“Good,” he says, a ghost of a smile touching his cracked lips. “A leader should know when to use a necessary lie.”
I put the car in gear and drive.
The horizon toward Moscow isn't gray. It’s orange.
At first, I think it’s the sun, but the light is too low, too flickering. As we cross the city limits, the smell hits me—burning rubber, ancient dust, and the sweet, heavy scent of a city’s infrastructure being reduced to carbon.
Alexei was right. They’ve gone scorched earth.
I pull over on a rise overlooking the industrial district. Columns of black smoke spiral into the heavy clouds. I can hear thedistant, rhythmic wail of emergency sirens, a hundred different voices screaming in the dark. The Baranovs are liquidating the evidence. The Petrenkos are burning the maps. They are destroying the world they built because they can no longer control who sees the blueprints.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.
“It’s a transition,” Alexei says, managing to pull himself up to look through the glass. He watches the fires with the detachment of a man watching a chemical reaction in a beaker. “The old structures are collapsing. Something new will have to fill the space.”
“Us,” I say.
He doesn't answer. He just watches the smoke.
The checkpoint appears three kilometers later.
It’s a bottleneck of concrete barriers and flashing blue lights. OMON officers in heavy tactical gear are moving between the idling cars, their breath visible in the headlights. They are looking for someone. They are looking for everyone.
I slow down, my stomach turning into a block of lead. I can't turn around. I can't run.
“Alexei, stay down. Do not move. Do not breathe if you can help it.”
He doesn't respond. He’s already drifted again, his head lolling against the seat.
I reach under my seat and feel the cold steel of the Makarov. Three rounds. If this goes wrong, I won't even be able to take out the dog handler.
