“Between thirty and forty inside. More if he has called in the old guard. We have confirmed twenty-two by name.”
“Dmitri?”
“Not seen leaving since afternoon.”
“Cars?”
“Six inside the main compound. Two armored. One gray SUV missing from the usual count.”
I look at him.
Viktor nods. “Could be the one from the canal. Could be unrelated.”
Nothing is unrelated tonight.
Alexei comes to the table. “Police?”
“Handled,” Viktor says. “Two friendly captains have been told there may be a private family dispute in the north district. They will be slow for the next three hours.”
“Three hours is not enough,” I say.
“It’s enough if we don’t make a mess in the street.”
I look at the map again. Kirill’s house sits on a hill in the old north district, surrounded by stone walls, cameras, private guards, and men who still believe his name means protection. Once, it did. Tonight, that belief will cost them.
I mark the river warehouses. “These three go tonight. Same time.”
Alexei steps closer. “His storage?”
“His cash, weapons, and port inventory. Burn what can be burned. Take what can be taken. Leave nothing he can use tomorrow.”
Viktor points at the western yard. “This one has civilians during the day.”
“Then not during the day.”
He nods once and writes it down.
I mark two transport offices. “Phones and records. I want his drivers unable to move without asking men who now answer to me.”
Another mark. The boxing club near the old market. “His old guard gathers here.”
Alexei’s mouth tightens. “That place will be full.”
“Good.”
A kingdom is not only men with guns. It’s keys, passwords, drivers, payroll, habits. Men like Kirill survive because people wake up every morning and continue obeying yesterday’s fear.
Kirill’s south warehouse catches fire without warning. Not wild, not careless. The east side goes first, where he keeps shipments waiting for export under false papers. My men take the records before the flames reach them. By the time firefighters arrive, the useful part is gone and the expensive part is burning.
Ten minutes later, his river storage is raided.
No fire there. Too close to neighboring buildings. Instead, the locks are cut, the guards are disarmed, and every truck inside is driven out under my colors. The men who surrender are left alive. The ones who reach for guns are not.
At one in the morning, the boxing club falls.
Alexei handles that one. He calls me afterward, breathing hard, voice flat. “Seven dead. Four wounded. Three ran.”
“Ours?”
