Page 8 of Dark King Daddy

He was not the trap. He was the distraction.

I came back down the stairs. Arkady followed.

“Outside,” I said. “Everyone outside. Now.”

“Daniil — “

“Move.”

I crossed the main floor toward the office at the back of the building. The door was metal, dented at the handle. I pulled it open. A small room — desk, filing cabinet, a calendar on the wall two months behind.

And behind the office, a second door. Unmarked. The smell hit me before I opened it.

Gasoline.

The storage room was six meters by four. Shelves on the left wall. A water heater in the corner. On the floor, between two red fuel cans with their caps off, sat a device. Wires connected to a phone. A timer on the phone’s screen, counting down.

Fourteen minutes.

Beside the device, a man lay on the concrete floor. His hands were bound behind his back with zip ties. His ankles too. A rag had been stuffed in his mouth and secured with duct tape. His face was swollen — both eyes, the bridge of his nose, his jaw. His shirt was torn and dark with blood that had dried in streaks across his chest.

He was alive. His eyes were open, rolling, white showing at the edges. He was making sounds against the gag — muffled, desperate, rhythmic.

I crossed the room in three steps. I pulled the rag from his mouth. He gasped and coughed and tried to speak.

“What’s your name?”

“Sergei.” The word came out broken. “Sergei Petrov. Please. Please, I can’t — there’s a — “

“I see it. How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know. Hours. They brought me — they said — “ He coughed again. Blood came up. “They said Lev Sokolov authorized it. They said — they had a card, a union card, they put it in my jacket — “

I looked at the jacket. Sokolov Freight union card, tucked into the breast pocket. Planted.

“Can you stand?”

“I don’t think — my legs — “

I cut the zip ties on his wrists with my knife. Then his ankles. I pulled him upright. He was heavier than he looked — dense, muscular, a man who worked on docks for a living. His legs buckled. I caught him under the arm and took his weight across my shoulders.

“Nikita,” I said into the earpiece. “Incendiary device in the rear storage room. Fuel cans. Phone-based timer. We have fourteen minutes. Less now.”

“Get out.”

“Already moving.”

I carried Sergei toward the office door. His feet dragged. His weight pressed down on my shoulders and his blood soaked through my jacket. He was conscious but fading, his head lolling, his breath coming in shallow pulls.

Arkady appeared at the bay door. He looked at Sergei, at me, at the blood.

“The building is going to burn,” I said. “Get everyone back. Now.”

“How long?”

“Less than twelve minutes. Move.”

Arkady turned and shouted into the yard. His voice carried — raw, commanding, the voice he used when the situation had passed beyond discussion. I heard boots on concrete, men pulling back from the building, engines starting.