I watch Ivan’s face. There is no triumph there. Only a cold, clinical boredom. He is an accountant tallying up the final rows of a ledger.
“What did you do to him?” Viktor asks. The question sounds like it cost him something to ask. “To Nikolai.”
“We processed him.” Ivan shrugs. “He was efficient. He gave us the Zurich codes. The Geneva vault. He gave us everything before his systems failed. I was prepared to dispose of him cleanly, but I had a... malfunction in my own ranks.”
Ivan’s voice sharpens, the first sign of genuine irritation.
“Alexei Morozov. My most reliable instrument. He was the one who unmade your son, and then, for reasons I am still analyzing, he decided to defect with the remains. Hechose a Petrenko heir over seventeen years of the Kennel’s programming.”
The words hit me harder than the cold. I see it now, through the scope, in the way Ivan’s hands tighten behind his back. Alexei didn't just save me. He committed the ultimate sin in their world: he chose a human connection over a directive.
“So they’re together,” Viktor says.
“They were. Until the farmstead.” Ivan tilts his head toward the skylight. “We intercepted them yesterday morning. There was a firefight. Morozov was hit. We found the blood, but the bodies were missing. If they’re alive, they’re bleeding out in a ditch somewhere.”
My grip on the SVD tightens until the metal bites into my palms. Alexei is not a ditch. He is in the truck. He is alive.
“If my son is alive,” Viktor says, his voice dropping into a dangerous register, “I want him.”
“Nikolai is a liability to both of us now,” Ivan says, his tone final. “He knows too much. He is a compromised asset. He has to be erased, Viktor. Whether you accept that or I make it a reality without your consent is the only variable left to decide.”
The two men stand in the center of the warehouse, surrounded by their guards, discussing my death as if it were a zoning permit. They are the past. They are the architects of the Processing Room and the Kennel.
My earpiece crackles.
The sound of static is a physical relief. It means the link is still active. Then, I hear the breathing. It is wet, labored, the sound of a man drowning in his own lungs.
“Nikolai.” Alexei’s voice is a whisper that sounds like it’s being dragged through gravel. “Status.”
“I have them,” I breathe into the mic, my lips barely moving. “They’re right below me. Negotiating my disposal.”
A long pause. I hear a wet cough, then the sound of a gear shift.
“Do not... take the kill shot,” Alexei rasps.
“Why not? I can end it right now. I have the angle.”
“Killing the kings... doesn't kill the crown. The organizations will splinter. The hunt will become... decentralized. We won't be able to track the threats.” He hitches a breath. “Create the vacuum. Let them burn each other. The authorities are already Mobilized. The explosion will bring the OMON within ten minutes. Neither side can finish a war with the state watching.”
He’s right. It’s the lesson he taught me:Don't kill the target if you can use the target to kill the system.
“I’m at the north door,” Alexei continues. “I found a flatbed. I can drive, but I can’t... I can't come in to get you.”
“I’m coming to you. Stay ready.”
“Always.”
The radio goes dead. I settle my cheek back against the stock. The scope is centered on the rebar jutting from the concrete. It’s directly adjacent to the pool of solvent, five meters from the rear of Viktor’s idling SUV.
Below me, the parley is ending. Viktor’s shoulders have slumped. He is a man who has finally recognized that his era is over. Ivan is checking his watch, his face already turning toward the door.
“One shot,” I whisper to the empty rafters.
I squeeze the trigger.
The SVD’s recoil is a solid punch to my shoulder, a familiar violence that I’ve learned to embrace. The muzzle flash is a brief, blinding strobe. The crack of the rifle echoes off the steel walls, a thunderclap that makes the guards below scramble for cover.
The bullet hits the rebar.
