My men are everywhere. Some armed openly. Some not. All tense.
The east wall is blackened. Half the roof has collapsed inward. Water runs across the concrete in dirty streams, carrying ash and broken glass toward the drains.
Viktor walks beside me.
“Who was on watch?” I ask.
“Denis and Lev.”
“Where are they?”
“Denis is burned. Alive. Lev is missing.”
That means dead or taken. Neither is good.
A foreman named Makar approaches, face streaked with soot, one sleeve torn.
“Report,” I say.
He swallows. “Two trucks came in with forged papers. The men knew the gate schedule. They were inside less than six minutes before the explosion.”
“Explosives?”
“Small charges. Enough to start the fire and ruin the inventory. Not enough to bring the building down completely.”
A message, then.
I look at the burned wall. My father likes warnings. He likes the old way of making men kneel before the real blow comes. But this feels too quick. Too exposed. Too theatrical after last night.
Dmitri, perhaps.
“Cameras?” I ask.
“North side was cut. East side burned. We have some from the gate.”
“Get them to Viktor.”
Makar nods and leaves.
I step closer to the warehouse entrance.
Viktor moves with me. “I don’t like this.”
“No.”
“Too easy.”
“Yes.”
I look around the yard. Too many places to hide. Stacked containers. Burned vehicles. A line of old machinery along the fence. Smoke still drifting thick enough to break sight lines.
I should step back.
But then I see something near the far service door. A smear of blood on the frame.
“Viktor.”
He follows my gaze.
