Page 84 of Bratva Baby

I catch him in two strides and slam him into the shutter before he gets through it. He hits hard enough to lose his breath, and when he turns back toward me, I see panic clear in his face for the first time. He knows what’s in the boxes, and he knows what happens if we keep them.

“Who are you?” I ask.

He says nothing.

I drive my fist into his ribs once and hold him there.

Kolya steps in beside me. “We can do this here or we can do it in the car.”

The man’s eyes flick to the boxes, then to the side entrance, then back to me. He cares more about the records than he does about himself, and that tells me enough.

Before I can press harder, the first shot hits the truck and metal bangs loud enough to shake the whole dock.

Kolya moves before the sound fully dies. He grabs the coat man by the collar and drags him behind the trailer. “Down,” he roars, panic thick in his voice.

24

SOFIYA

I realize something is off the second Kolya calls me instead of Anton.

I answer before the first full ring finishes—my hand has been locked around the phone since Anton left and every nerve in my body has been waiting for this exact kind of disaster.

“Talk,” I say.

Kolya’s voice comes through rough, crowded by movement and the hard bang of something metal nearby. “We’re off the dock. Anton’s hit.”

For one second the library tilts, and I grip the edge of the desk so hard, the papers under my palm wrinkle. Then my father’s voice cuts through the panic in my head, dry and irritated and alive only where I keep him.

When panic rises, Dochka, put it to work.

“Where is he hit?” I ask, and my voice sounds steadier than the rest of me feels.

“Side. Maybe shoulder too. He’s upright, but he’s bleeding through his jacket and refusing to sit down because apparently, dying standing up is a family value now.”

I close my eyes for half a second, then open them and drag the Khimki yard map closer. “Is he talking?”

“He’s cursing.”

“Good. That means his lungs work.”

“Glad we’re taking comfort where we can.” Kolya breathes hard, then the line crackles as he moves. “We’re behind the storage lane wall near the archive building. Two cars boxed us in from the side street after we opened the cartons. They’re not rushing us yet, but they’ve got a clean enough angle to make moving stupid.”

I scan the notes Anton left beside mine, and the whole route comes back in pieces. Cold yard. Reassignment lane. Short run to the archive building. Boxes marked like Varga’s batch system. Maks didn’t send men because of a truck. He sent them because Anton found the throat of the thing.

“How many shooters?” I ask.

“Four that I’ve seen. Maybe more. One on the side door, one behind the service car, two shifting near the outer fence.”

“Are they shooting to kill?”

Kolya pauses, and in that pause, I hear another round hit something close enough to make him swear. “They’re shooting well enough to hurt us, but not enough to finish this.”

“Then they’re buying time,” I say, already reaching for Anton’s second phone. “They either want the boxes confirmed before they burn them, or they’re waiting for Maks to decide whether Anton is worth more dead or breathing.”

Kolya doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice has changed. “You sure?”

“No. But I’m right.”