Mikel glances toward her. “Driver?”
“Yes.”
“Security?”
“Minimal.”
Mikel nods slowly, absorbing the information.
Men like Volkov believe money protects them. It buys silence, loyalty, and distance from the violence their operations create. But money does not stop men like me.
“Tonight?” Mikel asks.
“Yes.” Polina glances toward the window, where snow continues to fall. “The storm’s getting heavier.”
“Good,” I remark. Bad weather keeps witnesses inside.
The room grows quiet again as we begin reviewing routes and entry points. Somewhere out there, Ivan still believes he has time. He’s wrong.
Tonight, I begin removing the first piece of his world.
Sergei Volkov.
Darkness moves slowly over the estate as the storm deepens. The snow has been falling since late afternoon, but now the flakes fall more thickly through the darkness, covering the long private drive and the surrounding hedges in a pale, quiet layer that softens every edge of the landscape.
The stone walls bordering the property wear a thin white cap, and the tall iron gates stand half veiled by the slow, swirling curtain of snow. Security lamps burn continuously along the perimeter, their light scattering through the flakes and spreading across the ground in muted halos that make the darkness beyond the property line feel even deeper.
Inside the house's operations wing, the atmosphere carries a different kind of stillness. The lights are dimmed, so the monitors' glow becomes the dominant source of illumination. Screens line the far wall from floor to ceiling, each one feeding a live stream from somewhere in the city. Traffic cameras blink softly. Financial tracking software scrolls quiet columns of numbers. Satellite overlays mark routes and properties in faint digital lines.
I lean against the edge of the steel table with my arms loosely folded while I watch the warehouse feed displayed on the largest monitor. The camera shows the wide lot in front of the building where overhead security lamps throw dull circles of light onto the wet pavement. Snow moves through the frame, blurring the edges of parked vehicles and spreading across the asphalt like pale smoke.
Near the loading dock, a black sedan sits with its engine running. Inside the car, Sergei Volkov waits.
Even through the grain of the security camera, his posture shows the calm arrogance of a man accustomed to control. He sits slightly angled in the back seat, one arm resting against the door while the other moves across the screen of his phone. The glow illuminates his face briefly each time he scrolls.
Outside the vehicle, his driver stands beneath the lamp smoking a cigarette. The man’s collar is turned up against the wind, hisshoulders hunched as the snow gathers along the dark fabric of his coat. Each exhale sends a cloud of breath curling into the cold air.
They believe they are alone.
Polina stands beside the console near the monitors, her attention moving between the live feeds and the financial tracking software still running on the secondary screen. The pale light from the displays reflects faintly against her face as her fingers move across the keyboard.
“Volkov’s driver arrived twenty-two minutes ago,” she remarks quietly without looking away from the screen. “No additional security movement.”
She zooms the camera closer. Volkov lifts his head slightly in the feed, as if he senses the tension gathering around him, though he has no way of understanding what that tension means yet.
Behind me, the door opens and closes softly. Cool air brushes briefly through the room as Mikel steps inside. He glances up at the monitor and studies the warehouse scene before turning his attention toward the equipment case resting on the nearby counter.
“The team is in position,” he reports. His tone reflects certainty that every detail has already been confirmed twice.
I nod once and direct my attention briefly toward Polina. “Camera coverage on the eastern access road?”
Her fingers move again, pulling up a different feed. The monitor changes to show the narrow service road behind the warehouse. A single streetlamp glows weakly in the distance while snowdrifts across the empty asphalt. No vehicles move through the frame.
“Clear,” she confirms.
Good. I glance briefly upward toward the ceiling above us. Rowan sleeps one floor up. The thought moves through my mind the same way it has all evening, constant and impossible to ignore.
Earlier tonight, she tried to remain awake while I reviewed the surveillance reports, insisting she felt fine even as fatigue pulled at her shoulders. The pregnancy has begun draining energy from her in subtle ways she refuses to acknowledge easily. Her body demands rest even when her mind resists the idea. Eventually, exhaustion won.
