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A hidden button at the back opens a false wall panel. Behind it is one of the several weapon vaults on the property. A digital lock requires a retina scan and thumbprint. I open the door and step inside the walk-in safe just as Igor returns with Leonid, Dimitri, Yuri, and twelve of the men not scheduled for the night guard shift. Three cars with bullet-proof windows and reinforced bodywork pull up outside, their headlights illuminating the snow-covered garden.
I take an AK-47 from the gun stand and hand it to Igor. “Take automatic rifles and grenades. Smoke bombs too.”
Leonid hands the weapons to the men who gear up while Dimitri picks three drivers. I instruct them where to go, and in under a minute, we’re leaving the property in four cars.
Leonid and I sit in the back. Yuri drives and Dimitri rides shotgun. No one handles a car like Yuri. He can maneuver a Land Rover down a cliff at a forty-five-degree angle. I don’t trust any other driver. Plus, he’s good with a gun.
Our convoy slips smoothly into the sleeping streets of the upmarket neighborhood. I don’t expect a war, but I take nothing for granted where these motherfuckers are concerned.
The gang that uses the eight-pointed star emblem operates from a shady part of St. Petersburg. They’re a bunch of lowlife scums who make their money by smuggling weapons and drugs, but they’ll do any job for a price. They’re not picky about the so-called freelance work they take on.
After leaving the historical center behind, we head toward Kupchino and park at the back of a warehouse with an eight-pointed star painted on the wall. That’s where the gang stores their merchandise. I came here a couple of times in my youth when I was running deliveries. The attached building serves as their clubhouse, with the kitchen as a sorry excuse for a restaurant.
I scan the surroundings before we get out. Nothing stirs. They’re not expecting a visit. They won’t even see us coming. At my signal, the men exit their vehicles. Half of them follow me while the other half surround the building. Leonid goes ahead to scout the area, his gun pointed in front of him.
For now, we benefit from the cover of the dark night, but as soon as we hit the area illuminated by the streetlights, we move along the side where there are no windows. The place is exactly as I remember. The stench of rotting food and the pungent smell of piss hang in the alley. The bulb above the door burns. Good. A grin of anticipation splits my face. That means the motherfuckers are home.
Footsteps fall on the cobblestones. Leonid’s beefy face appears around the corner. He creeps up to me before saying in a hushed tone, “The warehouse and the back are empty. No one on guard. There must be at least ten of them inside.”
I take my gun from my waistband and tilt my head toward the entrance. My men move ahead of me to the door. We pass a small broken window that’s boarded up from the inside—the toilet window.
At the door, I stop to listen. The noises coming from inside are faint. The walls are thick. There’s a distinct clanging of metal, pierced by the occasional boisterous laughter. The cockroaches are dealing as usual.
I hold up a hand, counting down on my fingers. Leonid screws a silencer onto the barrel of his gun. On three, he shoots the lock open. Four men cover him as he kicks in the door. The sturdy metal slab swings inward, hitting the doorman squarely in the face. He stands frozen, a look of surprise trapped on his features, but he’s as good as unconscious on his feet. After another beat, he falls backward like a dead weight. Not taking any chances, Leonid plants a bullet between the man’s eyes as he steps over his body.
The silencer ensures there’s minimal noise to attract attention, but the open door alarms someone who comes out of the back room, zipping his fly as he walks. His eyes grow large when he spots us. He utters a cry, reaching for the gun in his holster, but he’s dead before he has his hand on the shaft.
All hell breaks loose.
Men fire at us from the back, forcing us to take shelter in the kitchen. It would’ve been easier to drop a grenade in the back room, but I want the man who attacked Katerina alive.
Men in dirty aprons are skinning rabbits at a big table. They look at us as if we’re ghosts. The shortest one drops his knife and raises his hands. The other two follow suit when Leonid rounds on them with his gun. An old woman with a nose and eyes buried in folded layers of skin shouts insults from the stove, waving a wooden spoon.
