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But that doesn’t mean the conflict is over. Not by a long shot. “It doesn’t matter what your motivations are. My father will kill you either way,” he states flatly.
I nod. “I know.”
He warned me from the beginning. I won’t ask him to help me now. I doubt it would do much good, anyhow. But I’m willing to face the consequences of my actions. I don’t want to die, but if that’s what it comes down to, without a doubt, Alina was worth it. I would give my life a hundred times to have spent these past few months with her.
Silence falls on the car once more, only this time, it seems to shift to a grim determination.
“The rest of the men are meeting us at the waterfront,” Rasputin says eventually as we turn down a lesser road and the city lights fall behind us. “We’re not messing around this time. It’s full force and ammo to make sure they don’t leave this one alive.”
I nod, ready to see the light leave every last one of their eyes. Especially the bastard who threatened Alina.
Headlights flash as we near the band of cars sitting in a semicircle, waiting for us. As soon as we return the signal, they fall into line behind us, following us down the line of dark warehouses. On the far side of the chain-link fence and buildings to our left are the industrial lights that illuminate the fronts of the warehouses. But toward the back are the older, more run-down buildings that have been out of commission for nearly a decade now.
“That’s the one,” Rasputin states, pointing to a red brick building with several shattered windows that look like broken teeth in the building’s façade.
Lenka turns off the headlights, taking his foot off the gas to make our final approach as silent as possible, and the Escalades behind us follow suit. Rolling to a stop, Lenka throws the car in park and kills the motor.
The three-story building looks entirely empty and dark.
No movement to indicate anyone’s inside. A strange sense of foreboding trickles through my veins.
“You sure about this one?” I ask, eyeing the building to try and find what’s raising the hair on the nape of my neck.
“I’m sure,” Rasputin states.
We pile out of the car, falling into a scattered formation as I draw the gun from my waistband. With the silent movements of a SWAT team, we creep across the paved lot to the side door that sits on its hinges at a casual angle.
Reaching the door, we gather, every man braced to enter on Viktor’s signal. And when Rasputin gives the all-clear, Alina’s brother meets my eyes for a long moment, dark pleasure in his gaze. If he told me to, I could be the first through the door, which could either end in my death or allow me to hunt down the bastards responsible for Alina’s abduction.
I can’t decide whether I would rather risk it and be the one who kills the pricks. Even if that makes me far more likely to die.
Then his eyes flick back to Rasputin, and he gives the silent go-ahead.
The captain slips inside without a sound. Lenka, Kristof, and I follow in a single-file line, just steps behind. The warehouse is pitch-black. The overhead lights likely have no source of power since this place has been out of use for so long. As I scan the dark space, my gun raised, I feel like I might as well be blindfolded.
The air is still and impossibly silent, like the held breath of a man in hiding.
Then the rifles burst into life.
Brilliant flashes fill the room, followed by the roaring sound of machine guns set to full blast.
And they’re aimed directly at us.
They knew we were coming. They’ve been waiting for us. It was a trap.
“Find cover!” I bellow.
Desperately, I scan the dark room for shelter. It takes only an instant to recognize Viktor’s face beside me, lit by the flashing lights of rapid fire. I grab his shoulder and yank him behind the crates to my left, hauling him behind cover with me. We hit the ground hard, and a second later, bullets ping off the cement where we stood.
Brilliant light floods the warehouse, blinding me as the space lights up as if illuminated by the midday sun. Someone found the power source and thought it would be a good idea to turn on the lights.
Several Sakharov men go down around us as the machine guns mow across our numbers. But from where I’m hunkered, I can tell our opponents are outmanned. By at least ten to one. The only thing they have on their side is their guns. And what looks like an insane amount of ammo.
Beside me, Viktor pulls himself together, cocks his gun, takes aim, and fires. I do the same, waiting for an opening and relishing the scream of pain that follows, accompanied by the immediate halt of one machine gun.
Around us, the Sakharov men are gathering their wits. Though the first wave through the door took a pretty bad hit, the element of surprise has been ruined, and now we have the advantage of sight.
It would be a hard tactical call—turning the lights on or keeping them off. I imagine they hoped the sudden brightness would help blind us, giving them an extended period in which to take us by surprise. Eventually, the dark would have made them easy targets anyhow because their weapons are as good as beacons the way the rapid fire lights them up.
