Something sharp and biting punches through my jeans and into muscle.
What the fuck?
I look down in time to see an injector pen stuck in my thigh. Heat explodes through my leg, spreading fast. My vision blurs. The room spins.
Then everything goes black.
CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVEN
KIRILL
The three trucksroll to a stop in formation at the Newtown Creek loading zone, headlights cutting through the industrial wasteland. Beyond the cracked asphalt and chain-link fencing, there’s nothing but abandoned warehouses and skeletal building frames stretching into the dark.
I step out of the lead Humvee, cold air biting through my jacket, and scan the perimeter while my men pour out of the convoy vehicles behind me. They move fast, weapons ready, every man aware that we’re being watched.
The Ghost is out there. I can feel it, like a crawling sensation on the back of my neck. Unseen eyes are tracking our every move.
But they’re not the only ones watching.
Hidden on nearby rooftops, inside the warehouse, in the shadows of collapsed loading docks and burned-out offices, are five hundred soldiers with enough firepower to turn this lot into a graveyard.
We planned this down to the last detail and everyone knows their role. No radio chatter unless absolutely necessary, becauseif the Ghost is monitoring our frequencies and sees us talking on a channel they can’t intercept, they’ll know something’s wrong.
I turn back to the trucks as my crew starts the unloading process. Real product, because we couldn’t risk the Ghost sniffing out a fake shipment. Fifty million in heroin, brick by careful brick, carried from the trucks into the warehouse by men who know that at any second this could go sideways.
I play my part. Checking manifests, nodding at crew leads, directing traffic like a man protecting a fortune instead of setting the world’s most expensive bait.
Let them think we’re vulnerable.
The first truck is almost empty when I catch myself reaching for my radio to check in with Dinara. I stop, hand halfway to my belt, and force myself to stand down. She’s locked into her command center right now, managing surveillance feeds and encrypted communications across five families’ worth of soldiers who’d normally be trying to kill each other. The last thing she needs is me interrupting because I can’t go twenty minutes without hearing her voice.
“Boss, second truck’s clear.” One of my men gestures toward the warehouse, voice low. “You want us to start inventory?”
“Not yet. Wait until all three are unloaded, then do a full count inside.”
He nods and heads back to work.
I check my watch. Forty-five minutes since we left Red Hook. The Ghost should be watching, calculating their approach, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. My pulse is steady, my hands are calm, and for once the violence simmering under my skin has a clear target.
This ends tonight.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out expecting a coded update, but the screen lights up with something that makes my stomach bottom out.
It’s a photo of Dinara tied to a chair, wrists bound behind her back, a dark strip of cloth pulled taut between her teeth. A bruise blooms dark across her cheekbone, a smear of blood at the corner of her lip where the rough fabric chafes her skin. Her eyes are dazed, staring straight at the camera.
My lungs seize and I can barely suck in my next breath.
The warehouse lot, the convoy, the soldiers—all of it vanishes into white noise as my brain tries to process what I’m seeing and fails completely because this can’t be real. She’s supposed to be safe, coordinating this operation from behind reinforced walls and encrypted channels.
Text appears below the photo.
It’s an address and a note that says I have thirty minutes to get there. Come alone, come unarmed, and tell no one.
The phone nearly slips through my fingers. My hands have gone numb. Everything has gone numb except the screaming animal panic clawing its way up my throat.
