Option one: obey the order. Kill him. Send the proof. Return to Viktor with blood on my hands and a clear conscience in the eyes of the organization. Live the rest of my life knowing exactly what I destroyed.
I discard that one before the thought even finishes forming.
Option two: fake the kill. Stage a body—some Jane Doe from a morgue, right height, right hair color, right dental records if I can pull strings fast enough. Tell Viktor the job is done. Put Landon on a plane with new papers, a bag of cash, and instructions never to come back. He disappears. I stay behind, play the loyal soldier, wait for suspicion to fade.
Problems: Viktor isn’t stupid. He’ll want visual confirmation—DNA if he’s paranoid, which he often is. And even if I manage the fake-out, Landon will spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.Alone. And I’ll never get to hold him again.
Option three: run with him. Disappear together. New names, new country, cash stashed in safe deposit boxes across three continents. Start over. Small town somewhere quiet—maybe Canada, maybe New Zealand. No more Volkov. No more Galkin. Just us.
Problems: Viktor will hunt. Not out of sentiment—out of principle. A defector is a loose end. Loose ends get tied off. And Mikhail… if he ever learns I took his son, he’ll want me dead too. Two organizations looking for the same two people. Long odds.
Option four keeps circling back, dark and seductive: find Mikhail first. End him. Quietly. Decisively. Remove the leverage point entirely. If the pakhan is gone, the ransom demand dies with him. Viktor loses his reason to kill Landon. The Volkov machine grinds on without this particular vendetta.
I could do it.
I know the Galkin protocols, the safe houses, the security gaps. One clean shot from distance. Or closer—knife, garrote, something personal. I’ve done it before.
But then I’d have to keep it from Landon.
Forever.
He’d never forgive me if he found out. And he’s smart too, so a single slip or misstep and he’d figure it out.
Even if he understood the logic, even if he knew it was the only way to keep him breathing, he’d look at me and see the man who murdered his father. The man who took the last piece of family he had left.
I can’t live with that look in his eyes.
Not now, not ever.
The song ends. Another begins—something upbeat, synth-heavy. Landon sings along again, softer this time, like he senses the shift in my mood.
I reach over and turn the radio off.
He stops mid-note.
“I need quiet,” I say, rougher than I mean to. “Just for a bit.”
My darling boy pouts—small, playful, but there’s a flicker of worry in his eyes.
“Okay, Daddy,” Landon says. “I get it.”
He doesn’t push. Instead he pulls Claw fully out of the backpack, settles him in his lap, and begins smoothing his fur with gentle fingers. Every few seconds he glances at me, like he’s waiting for permission to speak again.
I keep my eyes on the road.
We drive in silence for nearly twenty minutes.
Eventually the first big sign appears: MALL & MULTIPLEX – NEXT EXIT.
I take it.
Landon sits up straighter. “We’re going to the mall?”
“Multiplex,” I tell him. “Dark theater. Lots of people. Good place to disappear for a couple of hours. You know how this works.”
His face lights up—genuine, unguarded joy. “A movie?”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the only option at the theater!” I chuckle. “Pick whatever you want.”
