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I don't let up. Spinning behind him, I lock my arm around his neck in a chokehold. He thrashes, but my grip is vice-like. With a calculated squeeze, his struggles weaken, his body going limp in my arms. I lower him to the ground, ensuring he's out cold.
Fyodor, having watched the takedown, whistles lowly. "Impressive, Ivan. Remind me never to get on your bad side."
I smirk as I wipe my hands on my pants, a mix of adrenaline and satisfaction coursing through me. "Just doing what's necessary.”
We cautiously approach the back door. My heart pounds fiercely in my chest, not just from the exertion but from the fear of what we might find inside. Julie's in there somewhere, and every instinct I have screams to get to her fast, that she’s in imminent danger.
I try the door—locked. No surprise there. I glance at Fyodor, who nods, understanding the unspoken plan. We need to be swift and silent. The element of surprise is all we have.
I pull out a small toolkit from my jacket pocket, old habits die hard I guess. In seconds, I have the lock picked, the door easing open with a soft creak. We slip inside, the darkness of the club swallowing us whole.
The place reeks of cheap perfume and stale beer, the air heavy with the scent of despair. We stand still for a moment, allowing our eyes to adjust to the difference in light, or lack thereof. The silence is oppressive, and I strain my ears for any sound, any hint of where they might be holding Julie.
The back rooms of the strip club are a labyrinth of decay and neglect. As Fyodor and I move cautiously through the dimly lit corridors, the air is thick with the stench of mold and rot. The once vibrant wallpaper is peeling off, revealing patches of water-stained walls beneath. The carpet under our feet is sticky and stained, a mute testament to the countless spills and uncleanliness of the place.
Every room we pass is a snapshot of desolation—empty stages with torn curtains, chairs scattered haphazardly, and tables coated with a film of dust. The atmosphere is heavy with the ghosts of revelry long past. It's a place that reeks of hopelessness, a far cry from the glitz and glamor one might expect from a club.
I grip my weapon tighter, ready for whatever might come.
Suddenly, I hear voices. My senses heighten, every nerve on edge. I signal to Fyodor, and we inch closer to the source. The muffled sounds of laughter and clinking glasses reach us. Peeking through a slightly ajar door, I see a room that looks like a private lounge, its once luxurious fittings now faded and frayed.
Three men lounge on sofas, bottles of beer in hand, their laughter echoing grotesquely in the dingy room. They're engrossed in their conversation, oblivious to the world outside their drunken bubble. My eyes scan the room, searching, until they land on a figure slumped on a couch.
It's Julie.
My heart lurches at the sight. She's handcuffed, her head lolling to one side, a trickle of blood marring her forehead. Anger boils within me, a seething, raw fury at the sight of her, so vulnerable and defenseless.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm and think clearly. Charging in recklessly won't help her. We need a plan, and fast.
Fyodor meets my gaze, his eyes reflecting my own rage. He understands the stakes without a word being spoken. We’ve shared a silent understanding since we were kids, a tight bond between brothers. We retreat from the door, moving back into the shadows to strategize.
"We need to take them out quietly," I whisper, my voice a harsh rasp. "We can't risk them hurting Julie any more than they already have."
Fyodor nods, pulling out a small knife. "I'll take the one on the left. You got the other two?"
I nod, my hand tightening around my weapon. "On my signal."
We edge back to the door, our movements synchronized. The men inside continue their carousing, unaware of our approach. My eyes are fixed on Julie.
Before I can act, Fyodor's firm grip on my arm pulls me back. He nods toward the doorway behind us, aflicker of urgency flashing in his eyes.
I turn to see five men silently filing into the room, each one exuding an air of professional calm. The FBI has arrived, just in time.
I quickly point out Julie to the agents. One of them, a tall man with a stern face, nods in acknowledgment and signals to his team.
The raid erupts into chaos in a barrage of gunfire, shattering the oppressive silence of the rundown club. The FBI agents, their movements a blend of precision and deadly grace, dive into action, returning fire while seeking cover behind the dilapidated furnishings.
I'm momentarily frozen, the cacophony of gunshots echoing through the grimy, neon-lit space jolting every nerve in my body. Fyodor’s face is a mask of concentration as he grabs my arm, his grip tight. "Ivan, stay back!" he shouts over the sound of gunfire.
But my eyes are fixed on Julie, slumped and vulnerable on that filthy couch. The sight ignites a fire within me, a primal urge that overpowers reason. I wrench my arm free from Fyodor's grasp and lunge forward, staying low to avoid the flying bullets.
The agents are a whirlwind of controlled violence, systematically taking down Boris’ men. But in the midst of the disorder, Boris spots my reckless charge. His eyes, cold and calculating, lock onto Julie.
With a swift, predatory movement, he seizes her limp form, dragging her up as a human shield. His retreat is methodical, the chaotic firefight a distraction that allows him to move toward the back exit. Julie's head lolls helplessly as he maneuvers her in front of him, her life hanging by a thread in his ruthless grasp.
Rage—raw and unbridled—courses through me. Every instinct screams to charge forward, to tear Boris away from her and ensure her safety. But I know that a direct assault would put Julie at even greater risk.
Fyodor yells something, but his words are lost in the roar of gunfire. My focus narrows to Boris and Julie, the rest of the world fading into a blur. I move with a singular purpose, weaving through the mayhem, every sense attuned to their retreating figures.
