The engine turns over on the third try—a guttural, complaining roar that fills the small cabin with the scent of unburnt fuel. I put it in gear, the gearbox grinding as I find first, and pull out of the facility's hidden garage.
I am driving.
The realization is a physical shock. I am behind the wheel, navigating a world I’ve only ever seen through the tinted windows of a chauffeured Mercedes. No security detail. No driver. No father’s hand on my shoulder. Just the road, the vibrating steering wheel, and the man beside me who is fighting to stay awake.
The first hour is an exercise in stress. The Niva handles like a tank—heavy, unresponsive, requiring a constant, muscular correction to maintain a straight line. The roads are narrow veins of cracked asphalt, frost heaves threatening to jar the suspension with every kilometer. The vibration is constant, a low-frequency hum that rattles my teeth and makes the pain in my own body pulse.
Alexei tries to sleep, but his internal alarm is too well-tuned. His head falls forward, then jerks up, his eyes snapping to the mirrors before he even realizes he was out. The medication Katya gave him is a heavy veil, but seventeen years of conditioning is a steel cage. He cannot let go.
I keep my eyes on the road. I check the mirrors every thirty seconds, scanning the horizon for the telltale flash of a light bar or the high-performance silhouette of an interceptor. I maintain a speed that is fast enough to put distance between us and the facility, but slow enough to blend in with the occasional rusted truck we pass.
I am the operative now. The logistics of our survival rest on my hands.
Two hours in, the silence in the car feels too heavy, too much like the room I left. I pull out the burner phone Katya provided. It’s a cheap, plastic piece of junk. One bar of signal. I opena news site, the connection slow, the text loading in jagged fragments.
The world I knew is on fire.
PETRENKO EMPIRE IN FREEFALL.
SWISS AUTHORITIES EXPAND ASSET FREEZE.
BARANOV ORGANIZATION SUSPECTED IN WAVE OF TARGETED KILLINGS.
MOSCOW UNDERWORLD AT WAR: THREE DEAD IN RESTAURANT SHOOTING.
I scroll through the headlines, my eyes stinging. The codes I gave Alexei were the matches that lit the fuse. The Petrenko financial network is hemorrhaging—frozen accounts, seized properties, exposed shell companies. My father’s empire is being dismantled in real-time, and the Baranovs are moving in like vultures to strip the carcass.
But the vacuum is causing chaos. Other organizations are smelling the blood. Allies are turning. The Moscow I grew up in is being rewritten in gunfire and restaurant floorboards.
I should feel the weight of it. Guilt. Satisfaction. Something.
I feel only a deep, hollow exhaustion. I am a ghost watching a world I no longer belong to burn to the ground.
I turn off the phone and shove it back into the duffel.
Three hours in, the rhythmic throb of the engine is the only sound until Alexei’s breathing hitches. It’s a sharp, wet sound. He’s leaning his head against the glass, his face gray.
“We need to stop,” I say.
“Negative. Maintain... distance.”
“Your bandages need changing, and you’re starting to sweat through the wool. Katya said every four hours.” I don’t wait for him to argue. I pull the Lada off the road, bouncing over a ditch and into a copse of bare, skeletal birches. The trees are packed tight enough to hide the vehicle from the air.
I kill the engine. The silence that follows is deafening.
I retrieve the medical kit and circle the car. When I open his door, he’s already fumbling for the zipper of his sweater, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated.
“I can manage,” he mutters. “Standard... field procedure.”
“No.” I swat his hands away. “You’re going to sit there and let me do it. This is not a negotiation.”
“I am not an invalid, Nikolai.”
“You’re a man who got shot in the side and then spent an hour having a machine-gun tongue-bath in a warehouse. You’re too stubborn to be an invalid.” I pull the black wool up, exposing the damage.
The gauze is dark, saturated with a mix of blood and the clear, yellowish fluid of the infection. The heat coming off the wound is alarming. Getting into the high seat of the Lada has clearly stressed the sutures. I see a small tear at the edge of the line, a bead of fresh red welling up.
I work methodically. I use the antiseptic wipes, the chemical sting filling the car. I dab at the wound, my hands steady. I use the same clinical, detached tone he used on me, narrating the damage to keep my own heart rate down.
