I shift slightly as if to stand, but his hand stays at my waist—firm, unbothered. A silent refusal.
“Timofey…” I murmur under my breath, warning and embarrassment mixing together.
His eyes flick briefly to mine. Calm. Almost amused again. Like he enjoys this version of me more than he should.
Across the desk, Misha stands already, face composed as ever, pretending he saw absolutely nothing. Which, somehow, makes it worse.
Timofey clears his throat once.
“Good that you’re here,” he says flatly. “Valeria has identified three locations. We raid in the morning.”
Chapter 22 – Timofey
The first raid begins before sunrise.
The city is still half-asleep when we move, swallowed in that thin gray light that sits between night and morning. Quiet enough to feel empty. Dangerous enough to feel like a trap if you hesitate for even a second.
It’s the first location Valeria identified.
I don’t question her assessment. Not anymore. Not after everything she’s gotten right so far.
We approach in formation, vehicles cutting through the industrial edge of the waterfront with minimal sound. No lights. No unnecessary movement.
The warehouse comes into view quickly.
Small. Deceptively ordinary from the outside. Corrugated metal, weathered concrete, a structure no one would look at twice unless they already know what they’re looking for.
That alone confirms it.
According to intel, Anton prefers places like this. Places that disappear into the background of the city while hiding everything important inside them. Supply movement. Weapons flow. Rotation points. Quiet infrastructure.
I raise a hand. The convoy stops immediately.
“Positions,” I say quietly.
My men move without hesitation. Years of training snapping into place as they spread out across the perimeter. Cover points established. Entry angles secured. Escape routes cut off before the first door is even touched.
Misha moves beside me. “No movement inside yet,” he reports.
“Doesn’t matter,” I reply. “We assume it’s active.”
He nods once.
I glance at the building again, then signal forward.
The breach is clean.
We move in as one unit, sweeping the space with precision. Every angle covered. Every blind spot checked. Weapons raised. Eyes sharp.
And immediately—
I know we’re too late.
Empty weapon crates line the walls. Not scattered—stacked. Organized. Like they were packed up in a hurry, but not a careless one.
Several surveillance monitors are still running, screens flickering with live feeds from cameras positioned outside the building. Entry points. Road access. Perimeter angles.
No one is here. But until recently, they were.
