Konstantin steps away from the window, pulling a large tactical map of Jersey City onto the coffee table. He points to three highlighted sections near the industrial piers.
"Boris will likely choose a neutral, open site near the water," Konstantin says, his voice clinical. "Somewhere with clear exit routes and no cover for snipers. We’ll use the casino contacts' men to secure the outer perimeter. Boris knows our vehicles, but he won't recognize Silas’s or Vance’s trucks. We’ll have fifty shooters within two blocks of the exchange point before the meeting even starts."
"The Newark decoy has to be loud," Artyom says, leaning his head back. "Let Boris’s spotters think they're successfully hijacking our cargo. It will keep his primary enforcers occupied in the city while you're in Jersey City."
I look at the map, the lines and highlighted sections looking like a chessboard where the pieces are made of lives. My son and husband are both on that board, and I have to play the opening move.
Mikhail’s hand comes over mine, his fingers wrapping around my knuckles, his grip a hot, heavy anchor in the cold room.
"We’re ready," he says, his voice a low, terrifying whisper that promises nothing but blood.
The silence in the office is heavy, the clock on the wall ticking down the hours until ten o'clock. The trap is set, the pieces are moving, and the war for my son’s life is finally about to begin.
CHAPTER FORTY
MIKHAIL
The engine of the SUV cuts out, leaving us in a suffocating silence.
Through the cracked windshield, the abandoned brick structure of the old ironworks looms like a rotting carcass against the night sky. The windows are jagged teeth of black glass, and the only light comes from the pale, watery moon and the faint, yellow glow leaking from the loading bay doors. It smells like damp earth, rusted metal, and the salt of the nearby river.
I turn to look at Irina. She’s sitting perfectly still, her hands resting flat on her knees. Her knuckles are white, her blue eyes wide and fixed on the entrance of the building. She hasn't said a word for twenty minutes, but I can hear the shallow, erratic catch in her throat. She’s vibrating with a terror so pure it makes my own chest ache.
I reach over, my hand wrapping around her neck, my thumb dragging across her jaw to force her to look at me. Her skin is cold, her lips dry.
"Irina," I say, my voice a quiet, low rasp. "Look at me."
She turns her head slowly, her eyes searching mine in the dark. "I'm here."
"If anything goes wrong, if a single shot is fired, you drop. You get behind me, and you stay there. Do you understand?"
She swallows hard, her fingers coming up to grip my wrists. "I'll stay behind you. Just... don't let them hurt him."
"They won't touch him," I say.
I kiss her and then I pull my piece from the holster under my jacket. I check the chamber, the slide clicking back with a heavy, satisfying sound, before I tuck it back into the leather. I reach down, checking the spare mags on my belt, and then I check the small, serrated blade tucked into my boot.
"Let's go," I grumble.
We step out of the SUV, the gravel crunching beneath my boots. The night air is freezing, cutting through my suit jacket, but I welcome the chill. It keeps my head clear. I wrap my arm around Irina’s waist, keeping her flush against my side as we walk toward the loading bay. My eyes are scanning the dark corners ofthe yard, the rusted shipping containers, the broken concrete. I can’t see Konstantin’s men, which is exactly how it’s supposed to be. But I know they’re there.
We push through the heavy metal door.
The interior of the building is massive, the high ceiling lost in the darkness. Rows of rusted iron pillars stretch into the gloom, and the air is thick with the scent of old grease and stagnant water. In the center of the space, beneath a single, buzzing halogen lamp, a long wooden table has been set up.
Boris Petrov is sitting there. He’s dressed in his expensive gray overcoat, his silver-headed cane resting against his knee, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looks like a king sitting in a tomb.
And next to him sits my father.
Vladimir Morozov looks older, his face hollow and gray, but there is a smug, pathetic satisfaction in his eyes as he watches us approach. He’s wearing his old wool coat, his hands resting on the table like he still owns the city.
"Son," Vladimir says, his voice a dry, rattling hiss that echoes off the brick walls. "You're late."
"I had to make sure the roads were clear of your garbage," I say. I stop ten feet from the table, my arm staying locked around Irina’s waist. I can feel her heart hammering hard.
"Always so disrespectful," Vladimir sneers, taking a sip of his drink. "Artyom thought he could discard me. He thought because he took the seat, I’d just crawl away to the country and die. But he forgot who built this family."
"You didn't build anything, Father," I growl, my eyes shifting to Boris. "And you're about to find out how little your name is worth when I'm done with you."
