"Because if he actually has Markov, I need that information. And if he's lying..." I check the gun holstered beneath my jacket, the weight of it familiar and reassuring against my ribs. "Then I need to know what he's planning. Either way, we can handle him."
Kon nods slowly, his ice-colored eyes scanning the street ahead. "I've got your back, brother. Whatever happens."
I pull out my phone and show him the picture Jonah sent over.
“Fuck, this is serious. We do shady shit, but not this. Rafael needs to know.”
“Agreed. Let’s get this taken care of and then we can have a long sit down with everyone. It looks like we have some rats working their way into our foundations.”
We approach the warehouse on foot, moving through shadows cast by towering shipping containers and rusted machinery. The building looms ahead of us, corrugated metal walls streaked with age and neglect. A single door stands open, spilling pale light into the dim afternoon.
The setup screams trap. A lone entrance. No visible guards. The theatrical staging of an ambush waiting to spring.
But I have walked into traps before. I have walked out of them too, leaving bodies in my wake.
We enter together, Kon flanking me to the left, both of us with weapons drawn. The interior is exactly what I expected from an industrial space. High ceilings lost in shadow. Concrete floors stained with decades of oil and rust. Stacks of crates creating a maze that could hide a small army.
Jonah stands in the center of the open space, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. Behind him, a figure slumps in a metal chair, wrists bound, head hanging forward. Sergei Markov. I recognize the boxer's build, the scarred face, the particular posture of a man who has been beaten into submission. And the tail of a dragon inked down his forearm is a dead giveaway.
"You came." Relief floods Jonah's voice. "I wasn't sure you would."
"Show me what you have."
He reaches slowly into his jacket, mindful of the gun I have trained on his chest. His hand emerges holding a manila folder, which he extends toward me like an offering.
"Everything. Markov's connections to Victor. The shipping routes they've been using to move product through your docks. Names, dates, account numbers. Enough to dismantle their entire operation."
I do not move to take the folder. Something is wrong. The warehouse is too quiet. Markov is too still. And Jonah's eyes keep flicking toward the shadows behind the crates, tracking something I cannot see.
My jaw tightens at the implications of everything in front of me. "How did you get this information?"
Jonah’s expression sharpens. "I've been working on my own angles since our… issues. People talk when they think you want to take down the mighty Drake Moses." His smile is thin, brittle. "Turns out my reputation as a fuckup has its uses."
The explanation is plausible. Jonah has always been better at charm than combat, at manipulation than direct confrontation. If he wanted to use our fall out to gather intelligence it would be a logical approach.
But the wrongness in the air keeps building. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. My finger tightens on the trigger.
"Kon. Check Markov."
Kon moves toward the bound figure, his steps silent despite his size. He reaches out and lifts the man's head by the hair, exposing his face to the dim light.
It is not Sergei Markov.
The face is similar. The build is close enough. But the man in the chair is a stranger, his features slack with unconsciousness or death, his body serving as nothing more than a prop in whatever play Jonah has staged.
"Drake." Kon's voice carries a warning I do not need. He has seen it too. He holds a hand up covered in ink. No, paint.
The shadows behind the crates erupt with movement.
Men pour from hiding places I failed to identify, a small army emerging from the darkness with weapons drawn. Ten of them. Fifteen. More than I can count in the chaos of the first seconds. They wear tactical gear and carry assault rifles, their movements coordinated with the precision of professionals.
Jonah's expression transforms. The humble brother disappears, replaced by something cold and triumphant and utterly devoid of the humanity I once believed existed in him. “It’s amazing what you can do with a little paint.”
My chest tightens with the betrayal. Didn’t I expect this? And yet I held hope that my brother would come around. Fuck me once shame on you and all that shit.
"Did you really think I'd roll over and let you take everything from me?" His voice rings through the warehouse, amplified by the metal walls. "The business. The respect. And now Katriana too? No, brother. You don't get to win this time."
Kon moves first, his massive body interposing itself between me and the nearest gunmen. His weapon barks twice, and two men crumple to the concrete. But more replace them, an endless tide of violence converging on our position.
