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They would have to be in close proximity to the boats in order to steal the bunker fuel. And my guess is that they’ve taken on some dockworker jobs to avoid suspicion. Someone would likely notice a random stranger hauling gallons of the molasses-like fuel away from the shipping yard.But an employee?They might not think twice about it.
I’m confident enough in my theory that I not only plant several of my men around the perimeter of the port district, I join them. Going straight from the warehouse, I assess the situation and set up a schedule of Bratva members to stand watch around the clock. I want eyes on who is coming and going from the shipping yard and the surrounding docks at all times. Then we wait.
The hours spent out in the cold, observing what seems to be the everyday comings and goings of dockworkers slowly chips away at my confidence in my original hypothesis. And to top it off, I can’t stop thinking about Whitney and what she might be doing. How she’s probably filled her free hours I once occupied with her dance partner. The memory of her gliding across the university’s studio floor, her movements almost ethereal in their beauty, plays through my mind on repeat. I can’t stop thinking about the way her body floated through the air with every leap, each stunning lift making me think she might defy gravity and start to fly, just like the tiny pixy tattooed on a hidden spot inside her hip bone. It leaves me impatient, my chest aching to be with her rather than standing watch on this increasingly fruitless mission.
But I need to do something. I can’t leave this to my men any longer. I’ve lost enough of them between the shipment raid where Artem was killed and the warehouse fire that entailed trapping another contingent of Shulaya inside before lighting it up. I can’t spare more.
We spend days out in the frigid cold, sitting through a snowstorm that falls so peacefully, I could almost call it beautiful if it didn’t bring with it a bitter cold as the sun set. And then, as the clocks roll into midnight and Thursday night becomes Friday morning, I get another call waking me from my short window of sleep.
“We found them,” Vlad murmurs across the line in Russian. “One of the dockworkers has been acting suspicious since this afternoon, entering a building on the outskirts of the shipping yard where he doesn’t normally work. And now a yacht just pulled up to the docks. It looks like more people are gathering in the cargo building we’ve had our eye on all day.”
“How many?” I growl, rolling out of bed and yanking on the first pair of pants I can find.
“Count’s up to fifteen.”
“Der’mo.Call the other captains. I want every spare gun present and ready by the time I get there. I’ll be there in twenty. Don’t move until I say so.” Hanging up, I jump into action, shoving a tokarev into the waistband of my jeans before pulling on several layers of warm clothing.
I have little time to think about a plan of action. We’ll have to break into the shipping yard–not an easy feat, but one the Temkin members have managed, so I’m sure we can too. They may have even made it easier for us, killing any security footage or motion detectors for their late-night meeting.
The road is almost deserted on my way there, all the good, upstanding citizens of Chicago either playing in the downtown entertainment districts or at home in their beds. I pull up to the meeting point without headlights, Yefim and Erik by my side, and we creep along the fenceline to where Vlad is hiding. I’m pleased to see twenty more of my men, all dressed in nondescript black clothing, guns in hand.
With as few words as he can manage in muttered Russian, Vlad informs us about which direction the sneaky rats have been coming from. They’ve reached twenty-five in total, a considerable number that makes me confident they have another attack planned for tonight, or at least, a sizeable operation. Our saving grace seems to be that none have appeared concerned about raising the alarm, so we can most likely catch them by surprise.
“We’re outnumbered,” I state when Vlad is finished with his briefing. “That means we can’t hesitate. Surround them quietly, and when I give the signal, you take out as many of the fuckers as you can. Once we cut them down to size, then we shift strategies to capture and interrogate. I want to know how big they’ve gotten, who’s in charge, where they’ve been hiding, but not at the price of losing more men. Understood?”
A collective nod ripples through the group, and I signal Fyodor to lead the infiltration. Wire cutters snap along the chain link fence, opening a man-sized hole. Then, one by one, we slip onto the property and silently make our way toward the oversized storage shed. I’m thankful the snow earlier in the week didn’t amount to much, as now the frozen ground doesn’t make a sound or crunch under foot like fresh snowfall might. The fewer signs of our presence we leave, the more likely we will be to get away with this without repercussions.
Within minutes, we have the shed surrounded, and I’m pleased to find that the structure is fairly optimal for our attack. While covered in sheet metal, several patches around the enclosure have rusted away, leaving holes where my men can aim without having to completely give up their cover.
Signaling silently for my men to hold, I keep my back flat against the wall just outside the shed door, attempting to listen in on what the Temkin members might be saying. But scuffling boots and muffled grunts overwhelm the low voices. They’re carrying something–a good amount of something. I dare a glance around the corner and spot several large crates being hauled across the floor. One man stands with his back to me, overseeing the transport with his feet planted wide, his hands on his hips like some kind of fucking slavedriver. I hate the guy already.
A sliver of doubt makes me hold as the majority of them seem more like a transport crew than actual members, but the labels on the crates clearly mark their cargo as weapons.This isn’t legal, but are these the Temkin?
The doubt vanishes from my mind as the overseer turns his head slightly, as if detecting a sound to his left, and I catch his profile. Dimitri Petrov, younger brother to the former Temkinpakhan. He was supposed to have died from a car bomb very early in our original war–almost five years ago now. From the scarring on his face and neck, I would say he wasn’t far from death’s door. He certainly didn’t escape the blast, but somehow he survived and has remained hidden all this time.
With that confirmation, I don’t hesitate to give the signal. Transport crew or not, I plan on annihilating every last member of the Temkin clan tonight. Raising my hand and closing it into a fist, I give the silent command, and moments later, the night lights up like a fireworks display–a very loud, lethal display. I take the opportunity to round the corner and take out one of Dimitri’s knees, bringing him to the ground in the hopes that he’ll survive the initial volley so I can question him.
Then I go to work, shifting my aim from one target to the next as I blow holes in my rivals–headshots, stomach shots, bullets to the heart. I’m indiscriminate as I take down the men who scramble for cover, some pulling weapons only to realize they have no known enemy to shoot at. Screams of agony echo around the dilapidated building, and then they slowly gurgle into silence.
“Ostanovka!” I shout, and immediately my men cease fire.
I gesture another command, and my captains bark orders, sending Shulaya men flooding into the shed and kicking away any weapons within their owner’s reach. My men aim their guns at the wounded survivors left groaning on the floor. It’s rather impressive, I have to admit. Almost as organized as a military infiltration corpse, and we’ve taken them down without a single casualty on our side. I would almost feel bad for shooting them like a fish in a barrel if they hadn’t pushed me so far beyond my limit.
“Fucking Dimitri Petrov,” Fyodor spits as he finds the man sprawled across the floor, his eyes glazed with pain.
The remaining Temkin survivors are hauled into the center of the wide shed–six in all, including their leader–and forced onto their knees, their hands wrenched behind their backs. Dimitri howls in pain as Fyodor manhandles him, kicking the back of his obliterated knee joint as he forces the man to kneel on it like the other captives.
“So, you survived,” I observe darkly, looking down on Dimitri with deep disgust as I study the ugly ruins of his left eye cavity. “Well, most of you anyway,” I add mockingly, eliciting a chuckle from my men.
“Fuck you!” Dimitri spits, and Fyodor jerks the Bratva leader’s head back by his hair.
“Show some respect to your betters,” my captain warns.
“He’s no better than us. He’s just another power-hungry sociopath.” Dimitri’s good eye focuses on me once more. “You killed my brother, and you will pay for it!” he snarls.
Another round of laughter echoes around the room.
“And who’s going to make me pay? You?” I ask, gripping the Petrov brother by his shirt and hauling him up off the ground.
